The Untouchable
by treacleteacups
Summary: When Harry Potter does things, it's never in halves. By the time he arrives at Hogwarts, our little champion has discovered a way to keep everyone at bay. What happens when you've taught yourself to become untouchable? Shameless AU. Rated M for a lack of moral conscience, the occasional murder, and graphic dark themes (because why not?). Happily Ever After, Voldemort style.
1. Chapter 1: The Disappearing Act

**Title** : The Untouchable

 **Summary** : When Harry Potter does things, it's never in halves. By the time he arrives at Hogwarts, our little champion has discovered a way to keep everyone at bay. What happens when you've taught yourself to become untouchable?

 **A/N** : Not really sure where this story is going yet. It will definitely be slash, but still considering in which direction and with whom. The tone will change as Harry ages, changing from childish to mature. Let me know what you think...

 **Warnings** : Child neglect, dark themes, and SLASH (very, very eventually - and definitely consensual/of age)

* * *

 **Chapter 1: The Disappearing Act**

When Harry was six years old (and a half), he discovered something fascinating. If he wished Very Hard, sometimes so hard he thought he would pass out, he could make Strange Things happen.

Sometimes these Strange Things were very simple. Uncle Vernon wanted the remote for the telly and insisted Harry had hidden the remote. Harry wished Very Hard that Uncle Vernon could find the remote and as Uncle Vernon approached Harry, the remote was crushed under the large man's foot. Now, Harry knew that Dudley had hidden the remote. And Harry knew for certain that the telly remote was not on the floor a few moments ago. Uncle Vernon seemed to know this too, or perhaps a version of this, and had seemed very upset.

Uncle Vernon refused to touch the remote and went out quickly to buy a new one.

Sometimes these Strange Things were awfully complicated. Dudley liked to chase Harry around, which wouldn't normally be a problem as Harry was very fast. But Dudley had many friends and sometimes these friends were faster than Harry. If Harry wished Very Hard (so hard that his face would turn red and his cheeks would heat up), he could escape Cousin Dudley and his gang of friends. Sometimes Harry would end up on the roof. Sometimes Harry would be in a tree. It did not work all of the time (which was partially why it was in the awfully complicated category), but it worked often enough to upset Dudley and complain to Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia did not like Strange Things.

Harry was sentenced to stay in his cupboard under the stairs for disappearing into a tree. When Uncle Vernon came home, he was very upset too. Uncle Vernon very much did not like Strange Things. Harry did not like to say the word often, as it was a word Dudley said a lot and made everyone upset, but it was true to say that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia _hated_ Strange Things.

As he sat in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry realised that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon must hate him, too. Because Harry, himself, was a Strange Thing.

Now, Harry knew that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia did not need to keep him in the house. He had heard many times from Uncle Vernon that the man was ' _this close'_ to placing him in an orphanage. Aunt Petunia would then talk loudly (in front of his cupboard) about 'how awful and cruel' orphanages were and perhaps they would give Harry another chance.

Harry would listen to Aunt Petunia whine and Uncle Vernon grumble and he would tremble, hiding amongst the spiders in the cupboard under the stairs. Orphanages sounded very evil to Harry. Aunt Petunia almost seemed pleased about the idea sometimes, which frightened Harry greatly. Aunt Petunia was very rarely pleased about anything other than mean things the neighbours said about one another.

This time, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had a fight. Uncle Vernon said that disappearing into a tree was 'the last straw'. Aunt Petunia whispered quietly, scared, about a 'letter' and was very upset that they could not do more. Harry did not know what that meant, but he did know that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were going to send him away. Harry did not know if that meant to an Orphanage, but the thought frightened him so deeply that he wished Very Hard that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would forget that Harry existed.

It did not seem to work, which did not surprise Harry, as most Strange Things only came true in a physical sort of way. If Harry wished he could disappear, this oft meant he would zip up into a high space away from his pursuers instead of truly disappearing. If Harry wished Aunt Petunia had never cut his hair, his hair would grow back instead of going back in time. Harry had experimented with many Strange Things and often the easiest answer would come true, even if Harry did not know what the easiest answer was at the time.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon did not forget that Harry existed, for they continued arguing late into the night about whether to send him away or not. Little Harry continued wishing Very Hard and he fell asleep on his cot in the cupboard under the stairs, where he dreamt of becoming invisible.

* * *

When Harry awoke, it was very early in the morning, so early that the house was awash in blue from the very beginning of a sunrise. Aunt Petunia had forgotten to unlock the bolt on his door and Harry needed to go to the bathroom. Harry was stuck – he did not know if it was worse to go to the bathroom in the cupboard or unlocking the door from the inside. Harry realised that Aunt Petunia most likely just forgot, so he wished Very Hard that the door would unbolt and it did. The more Harry practiced, the better he got.

Harry put on his glasses and very quietly tiptoed into the bathroom and was very surprised by what he saw. Instead of black hair and green eyes, Harry saw a Very Boring boy staring back at him in the mirror. Harry looked at the boy curiously, tilting his head this way and that. The boy mimicked his actions and Harry jumped as he realised that the boy was _him_.

Harry was not sure what precisely was so boring about the boy in the mirror. Perhaps it was the fuzzy appearance of the boy, or the way his shoulders hunched. Or perhaps it was the way his large glasses reflected light and hid his eyes. Harry took off his glasses to see if his eyes had changed and jumped again in surprise as Harry once more became Harry. He experimented with his glasses, putting them back on and off again many times. Like an illusion, Harry turned Very Boring with his glasses on and back to Regular Harry with his glasses off.

Harry was aware that Regular Harry was very strange looking indeed. His teachers often commented on the colour of his eyes or complained about the wildness of his hair. Sometimes they complained that he was very skinny, but a conversation with a grumpy Uncle Vernon often had them forgetting.

But with his glasses on, he became Boring Harry.

Harry found this Strange Thing to be fascinating. However, it was time to start the morning chores and Harry did not have much time before Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stirred. He put his glasses back on and quickly used the bathroom.

Once Harry had washed the windows, swept the kitchen floor, started a load of laundry, and dusted the picture frames in the lounge, Harry sat at the kitchen table and waited for Aunt Petunia.

Harry was a little worried how Aunt Petunia would react. Aunt Petunia had only been speaking with Uncle Vernon yesterday about how tired she was of Strange Things.

When Aunt Petunia bustled into the kitchen, she stopped and stared at Harry for a moment. Harry felt himself sinking into the chair, very scared of her reaction, but then Aunt Petunia's eyes seemed to glaze over and she continued on her way to the fridge.

Aunt Petunia pulled out eggs, bacon, bread and butter.

"Scrambled eggs for breakfast," Aunt Petunia stated rudely. Harry couldn't remember a time when Aunt Petunia said good morning or good night to Harry, as she did to Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley.

Harry nodded meekly, keeping himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, and began breakfast preparations.

Once breakfast was ready and keeping warm in the oven, Harry washed and dried the dishes. Uncle Vernon came in first, the large man tottering into the room with loud footsteps. He passed right by Harry without a second glance and sat at the table. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon began to discuss the day's events, Uncle Vernon grumbling about his schedule and Aunt Petunia complaining about the new neighbour four doors down.

Cousin Dudley walked in next, barely fitting through the doorframe for he was so wide, and passed by Harry as well. Harry placed a glass of juice in front of Dudley, a coffee before Uncle Vernon, and a cup of tea with milk and sugar before Aunt Petunia.

No one spoke to him, nor did anyone even look at him. Harry would consider this a victory normally, but he was surprised no one had yet to mention nor get upset by the newest Strange Thing.

Once breakfast was served, Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley's plates towering with food, Harry retreated from the kitchen. He allowed himself a secret smile, lips twisting and eyes glittering as he awaited his teacher's reaction as school.

* * *

As Harry had predicted (and hoped), no one noticed Boring Harry. In fact, it was becoming easier and easier to simply disappear. Cousin Dudley and his gang of mean friends forgot Harry existed and chased another little boy around the playground. This little boy, though, had very a serious mum and dad and they complained to the headmaster. Dudley had to stop chasing children around the playground, even though Uncle Vernon complained at home that the little boy and his parents were sissies.

The teacher still called Harry's name in the morning roll, but she never asked him questions anymore or complained about his bad handwriting. During one hair-raising experiment, Harry ate an orange in the library right next to the sign declaring in block letters: _NO FOOD OR DRINKS._ The librarian looked at him for a moment with her mouth open, as if to speak, but then she turned her head back to the gaggle of teenagers giggling in the children's section and told them off for making such a racket.

Harry found that if he kept his mouth closed and did not call attention to himself, he was very easy to forget. During one fieldtrip, Harry was forgotten at the zoo. He waited for a while, but no one seemed to remember to come pick him up and he very narrowly missed being locked in the zoo as it was being closed. Harry was a little annoyed at that, as he had to walk home, but after a few hours of walking and wishing Very Hard that he was going in the right direction, he arrived at Number Four Private Drive. It was very late, perhaps nearing midnight, but none of the lights at home were on and the car was in the driveway. Harry wished once more that the door would unlock and after the loud _click_ of the bolt moving, Harry slipped through the door.

He could count three loud snores and realised that no one remembered Harry.

Instead of feeling upset or sad, Harry felt a large surge of happiness swell in his chest. If Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon couldn't remember that Harry lived in their house, or even that he was missing, they wouldn't be able to send him away.

* * *

As the years passed by, Harry became very good at being Not Seen. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon forgot to speak to him often and as long as he kept the chores up and plates of food on the tables during meals, Harry could snack as he wished and come and go as necessary.

Harry was proud to note that he was the most independent child in school. Most children needed to ask their mum and dad's permission to do everything. Harry didn't need to ask anyone anything – ever – at all. Harry didn't get toys or books, but when Dudley broke something and tossed it away, Harry could pull it into his cupboard as a dog might sneak a stolen sock into their kennel and the household would forget that it ever existed.

Sometimes Harry wished that people would recognise or remember him. He was very careful to not wish this Very Hard, as Harry did not want to lose the gift of his invisibility. Harry dreamt sometimes that he had a happy family, as most children at school did, who would take him to the beach, or to the park, or give him gifts on his birthday and Easter and Christmas and sometimes even 'just because'. Harry dreamt of having a mum, a dad, and maybe even a little sister or brother.

But Harry was resigned to the fact that his was not going to happen as it surely would have by now. Harry was ten years old (and nearing eleven rapidly) when Harry decided that he would make a family of his own. One day, he would find someone special (though nothing like Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon) and would have a large, loving family. Harry promised himself that his family would have lots of hugs and kisses and no one would ever need to wish to become invisible.


	2. Chapter 2: Through The Looking Glass

**Chapter 2: Through The Looking Glass**

Harry had just finished washing the dishes and putting them away when he heard mail come through the front door flap. He dodged around his large relatives (Cousin Dudley bigger than ever) and collected the mail. As he returned to the kitchen, he sorted through the coupons and bills and was amazed to find that a large letter in strange paper was addressed to him. Harry tucked the letter into his pocket (barely just so, as it was so large) and dropped the rest of the mail off on the kitchen table. Uncle Vernon did not seem to notice him, but he did notice the letters and began to flick through the bills angrily.

Cousin Dudley stared stupidly at the television, a bit of egg stuck to his chin. Aunt Petunia chattered on the telephone to the neighbour across the street, complaining about Mr. Bell's lawn. Once Harry was satisfied that he was free for the rest of the day (after all, it was Saturday and he only had the gardening chores left to do), he snuck off to his cupboard.

Once the door was firmly shut, Harry pulled on a string from the rafters. A soft light flickered on and Harry stared at the heavy letter with strange, embossed green lettering.

 _'Mr. H Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,'_ it read. Harry mouthed the words slowly, confused. He didn't know anyone who would send him a letter. In fact, Harry didn't know anyone who knew he lived under the stairs, other than Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Cousin Dudley and perhaps Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge was the only conceivable candidate to send him such a letter, but the woman detested Harry and pretended he was invisible even before Harry became Not Seen. Perhaps it was advertising mail, which made Harry feel uncomfortable.

After peeling open the envelope lip (and ogling at the large wax seal), Harry was amazed to see several letters in the packet. He read the contents with slowly widening eyes.

To Harry's shock, the letters made sense despite their strange words and confusing terms. Harry knew from a very early age that he was Special (though if this was bad or good, he did not know), so discovering he was a wizard was not that surprising. In fact, Harry wouldn't be alarmed if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon knew too, seeing how much they hated Strange Things.

Along with the letter was a map to 'Diagon Alley' via 'Muggle London'. Harry did not know what that meant nor how to return a confirmation of his intent to attend Hogwarts. Harry knew that a few years ago, he would have been too frightened and too worried to believe this letter. In fact, had he believed the letter, he would have been too scared to agree. But since becoming invisible, Harry discovered that it was very easy to do things because no one was watching.

The letter let him know that a professor would be along soon to answer his questions and take him to Diagon Alley for his school shopping, but Harry knew that his relatives did not like strange people coming by the house. He imagined that his Aunt and Uncle would be especially unhappy if an invited witch or wizard knocked on their door. So Harry steeled his nerves, tucked the letter firmly into his pocket, and decided it was time to go exploring.

* * *

Catching the train from Surrey to London was quite simple; so simple, that Harry wondered why he had not done it before. People looking for a day off in the city bustled around little Harry and no one paid him any mind. He did have one close call, in which someone almost sat on him. Sometimes being Not Seen was just as much effort as not.

Harry had heard many times that children were not to go off wandering by themselves. There were bad people in the world and their parents would miss them awfully. But Harry did not have parents and being Not Seen provided him a certain layer of protection, so Harry slunk down the busy, loud streets of London without receiving a second look.

London was very overwhelming, especially for someone who spent most of their life cleaning a house, sitting in class, and sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. Harry carefully read the map, eyes widening as he realised that the map moved with him, a little shape on the parchment denoting himself as the centre and a red line showing him the way. If Harry needed proof that the letter was not a hoax but rather a Strange Thing, this would definitely be it.

Harry finally came upon a large pub door with a dirty, stinky stoop. Most people walked by, eyes jumping from one window pane to the other, not noticing the door. Harry had become very accustomed to that look; these people could not see the pub door as they did not see Harry. This seemed an appropriate marker of a Strange Thing, so Harry quickly ducked across the sidewalk and into the pub door.

Once he slipped inside, the loudness of London was cut off. He did not spend too much time looking around, for he now was in the presence of witches and wizards and Harry feared that his invisibility would not work. Thankfully, no one looked up nor paid him any mind, so Harry was free to follow the little red line to the backdoor of the pub.

Harry was surprised to see that the map ended in a little courtyard outside of the pub. The area was walled off with towering bricks and only a few overflowing rubbish bins occupied the space. A sinking feeling grew in Harry's gut as he began to think that perhaps he was being tricked. Harry walked over to the large silver bins and sat down, wondering what to do next.

Just as Harry settled on the cobblestone, a tall, skinny man bustled out of the pub door. Harry felt himself bristle and he focused very much on being Not Seen. It seemed unnecessary, as the man pulled out a large, knobbly stick and began tapping on the brick wall. Harry watched in fascination as the bricks responded to the taps with fervour, the knobbly stick causing a ripple like a stone dropped in a lake. The man disappeared through the shifted brick wall (not looking nearly as impressed as Harry felt) and Harry scrambled to follow him. Just as Harry squeezed through, the bricks resettled and he looked behind himself in surprise as his only exit was sealed shut. Harry shrugged, knowing there must be another way to leave, and turned around.

Harry was amazed by the sight before him. Diagon Alley appeared to be a strange village from one of his fairytale stories, booming with activity. Hundreds of witches and wizards (for that was what they must be) walked around with their shopping, sometimes their bags floating next to them. There were many witch's hats bobbing around and occasionally an odd looking cat would walk by next to their owner, looking at Harry with surprising clarity and suspicion. Harry ducked away from those cats, worried that their owners would be able to see him as well as the felines had.

It appeared that Harry was as much Not Seen here as he was in regular London, even though these witches and wizards must be able to see the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry wished he knew the answer to why, but perhaps it was something he would learn at school.

Harry wandered into the nearest door, doing his best to not be trampled. Harry knew he was on a time constraint to catch the last train home, but he did have a few hours to explore. This store appeared to be a furniture store, full of ends and bobs that one may need around the house. There were fancy bookshelves proudly displaying expensive-looking tomes, mirrors that chatted at the occasional passer-by, and tea service trolleys that poured their own tea and cream upon request. Harry looked at a few price tags and was confused by the strange jargon. What a galleon or sickle was, he didn't know. Harry began to despair a little, as he had no money besides the five pound note he had nicked from Uncle Vernon's wallet.

Harry approached the nearest shop assistant and waited patiently until they were no longer fluttering after another customer. Harry wished for a moment to be a little less Unseen and the shop assistant blinked at him in surprise, as if not noticing him until now.

"Hello there, lad," the woman welcomed politely. "Are you here to pick up some shopping for your mother?"

Harry smiled at her kindly and shook his head. "I'm doing some school shopping, but I'm afraid I don't know what a galleon is. Would you be able to explain what that means, please?" Harry asked, doing his best to be polite and put his best foot forward.

"Oh, my!" The shop assistant announced. "Muggle-born, are we, dear?" She asked rather pityingly.

"I don't know," Harry answered, confused by the term and eyebrows drawing together.

"Oh! Of course," the shop assistant sighed, as if she wasn't terribly interested in explaining. "Muggles are non-magical folk, you see. You'll need to convert your muggle money into wizarding money, dear. If my memory serves me correctly, a galleon converts to about five pounds. There's seventeen sickles per galleon, and twenty-nine knuts per sickle."

Harry looked at her with wide eyes, realising that his single five pound note was only _one galleon_. Some of the furniture and decorations were several _tens_ of galleons. He thought hard for a moment.

"How many knuts per galleon?" Harry asked, warily.

"Four hundred and ninety-three," the woman answered warmly, smiling at him in a kind but pitying way once more. "Though there's not much to be purchased with knuts, you see. Mostly lollies and the like. Don't go filling up on candies, though, not before you finish your shopping!" She warned in a matronly tone.

Harry nodded, dazed, and looked around helplessly. "I don't have much," Harry whispered, realising that his dreams of attending Hogwarts was evaporating exponentially by the second.

"Perhaps Gringotts would be willing to offer your family a loan?" The woman offered, suddenly looking him up and down and a line of concern forming on her forehead at the sight of his ragged, too large clothes.

"Gringotts?" Harry asked, beginning to feel stupid for having to ask so many questions and realising that he would need to wrap this conversation up quickly before she started looking for his parents. Most adults were obsessed with children having parents.

"Oh yes, dear! The wizarding bank. It's just down the path, love. You won't be able to miss it!" The woman announced happily, appearing to be pleased that she had aided the boy. She then turned around after a customer tapped on her shoulder and Harry was forgotten once more.

Harry focused hard on being Not Seen again, slipping through the front door unnoticed. Though he probably could get away with nicking a few things, Harry thought it terribly unfair to steal, especially when he had other options such as asking for a loan.

The shop assistant was correct – Harry couldn't possibly have missed Gringotts Bank. It was an enormous, towering stone building that cast a looming shadow on its neighbours. Harry read the warning on the arch of the entrance and shuddered, recalling that he had mulled over stealing not moments ago. Just as he passed the front entrance, a hand shot out and jerked Harry to the side.

"What have we here?" A growling, horrible voice purred in his ear.

Harry gasped in horror, turning to his assailant. A bizarre, leathery looking creature held the cuff of his shirt in a clawed grasp, reptilian eyes glinting with malicious glee. The creature was not that much smaller than himself, perhaps a few centimetres, but that did not diminish its imposing and intimidating presence.

"I-I," Harry stuttered, unsure what to say to appease the strange beast and mind going blank with terror.

"Think you can walk into our bank and steal, you brat?" The creature growled once more, eyes glittering with mad fury. "I'll skin you alive right here!"

"N-no!" Harry burst out, feeling his eyes well with tears and cheeks flush. "I just wanted to ask for a loan!"

The creature looked at him unsympathetically, racking its eyes over his ragged appearance. It then began to pull him through a side door, away from the hustle and bustle of the grand entrance hall. No one seemed to take notice and Harry realised that this was one of those times that he would very much prefer to _not_ be Not Seen.

Harry was deposited unceremoniously in a large wooden chair. The creature snapped its fingers and Harry found his wrists bound with leather restraints to the arms of the chair. He dared not to struggle, not when the vicious creature walked over to a table and picked up a large, twisted gleaming knife of an old wooden table.

"You'll tell me the truth, child," the creature warned.

Harry began to shake and realised his only way to get out of the situation was to wish Very Hard. He closed his eyes, ignoring the hot tears splashing down his cheek, and wished Very Hard to escape. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. That is, until a door opened on the side of the chamber door and another odd creature walked in.

"What are you doing?" The new creature barked loudly. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This little monster walked in with a Notice-Me-Not variety on him. Trying to steal," the first creature growled dangerously.

The new creature scoffed. "Notice-Me-Not. As if that would work," it intoned, disgusted.

"I wasn't trying to steal, I swear," Harry hiccupped, desperate to be believed.

Both creatures turned to him and looked at Harry through suspicious, narrowed eyes.

"Then you won't mind being questioned, would you not?" The first creature crooned.

Harry looked at it in surprise and opened his mouth to speak. As he did so, a vial of clear liquid flung across the room and its contents was dumped in his mouth. Harry spluttered and gagged as he swallowed the liquid, which was as tasteless as water but had a more thick, syrupy consistency.

"What is your name?" The first creature asked coldly.

"Harry James Potter," Harry answered. He blinked in surprise, unsure why he had answered so quickly.

Both creatures blanched in surprise, looking at him with wide eyes. The second creature walked forward and looked him over a little more seriously than before. It seemed very interested in his glasses and pulled them off quickly to inspect them. Both creatures then watched Harry change, as Harry knew he would, and he looked down in shame at being caught doing a Strange Thing.

"Uncommon charm," the second creature intoned darkly as it inspected his glasses. "Crudely drawn runes on the frames. Perhaps by accidental magic. Easy to decipher," it stated, looking at the first creature.

"What does it do?" The first creature asked, excited.

"Makes me invisible," Harry answered, the words pulled from his mouth against his will. Both creatures then turned to him again, frowns on their faces, and Harry realised that the question was not directed at him. "I think," he continued, a little unsurely.

"A strange concoction of notice-me-not, disillusionment, repellent, and… Boringness in the eyes of the beholder." The second creature stated once more, looking a little stumped.

"Why do you have these glasses?" The first creature asked suspiciously.

"So my aunt and uncle won't send me away. And because I can't see very well without them," Harry answered helplessly, feeling a blush rise on his cheeks at the admission.

"Neglect," the second creature suddenly announced, expression turning dark. "But that is a matter for the wizards and their kind."

"Are you not a wizard?" Harry asked, curious.

Both creatures looked at him with such distain in that moment that Harry wished he could fall through the floor.

"Of course not, you little brat," the first creature snarked coldly. "We're goblins."

"Oh," Harry stated, unsure what to do with the new information.

The second goblin then became to look irritated and bored. "What do you want?" It asked, clearly running out of patience.

"A loan, please. I need to go to Hogwarts. It's a school that I was invited to attend –" Harry began fervently, glad that the questions had turned from personal to professional.

"We know perfectly well what Hogwarts is," the first creature interrupted. "And you do not need a loan. At least not for now. You have your family's estate."

Harry looked at the creature in surprise. "Estate?" He asked, mystified.

"This child does not know who he is," the second goblin suddenly laughed, expression astonished. "This child thinks he is a mudblood."

"No," the first goblin breathed disbelievingly. It then looked at Harry suspiciously and its invisible eyebrows rose. "What foolishness," it crowed.

Harry listened to the goblins throw synonyms around regarding his intelligence, lips pursed in irritation. "So if I have money here, aren't I a customer?" He asked suddenly, cutting off a jib from the first goblin.

Both goblins turned to Harry, reptilian eyes pinning the boy with a dangerous stare. "Yes," the first goblin intoned darkly. "And you'll remain one."

While Harry didn't know much about customer service, threatening one's customers didn't seem very professional. But Harry didn't feel like saying that to the angry little creature out lest it use the knife it still clutched in its hand and he sighed, nodding.

* * *

Harry was mortified and completely flabbergasted at the sheer amount of _gold_ he owned. Galleons after galleons were stacked high up in his vault. Harry had become scared upon seeing the wealth, wondering if this was a trick.

The goblins told him it wasn't. But they seemed like the type to lie.

Harry ended up in taking only a small handful of the large galleon coins and a few of the smaller denomination coins. He hoped that, if it was a trick, he wouldn't be punished too harshly for taking just a small purse's worth out of the vast room of gleaming metals. The goblins also informed Harry that no reply was necessary to attend Hogwarts, as his tuition fee had already been withdrawn from his account. A key was pressed into his hand as he was shoved out of the bank entrance and warned very firmly (to the point of a threat) that he was _not to lose it._

 _Customer service, my butt!_ Harry thought to himself, frowning. _These goblins are worse than Aunt Marge on a bad day!_

Shopping for school supplies was equally boring and exciting. Harry had just enough to buy a pair of second hand robes (he squawked at the price of tailored robes, immediately searching for a ready-made set), his school books, a small trunk to fit his wares, and potions supplies. Harry had nearly gawked at the shelves on the apocathary walls, but that required stopping and Harry was in no mood to wander the busy shops. Despite being mostly Unseen, he did garner a bit of attention when the occasional mother would focus on him, eyebrows drawn together as she clearly wondered where his parents were.

Harry had been wishing Very Hard all day that no one would notice him and it was beginning to become exhausting.

Harry finally had two stores left; a wand shop and a pet shop. Harry had never owned a pet nor wand before (or cauldron for that matter, too), but something seemed so lovely about having a little creature of his own.

Ollivander was an odd concoction of a man, half ancient, half not. He also saw through Harry's invisibility with horrifying ease and Harry gingerly took the wands from the man's outstretched hands, ignoring the man's babbling as he spoke about brothers, great things and phoenix feathers. Harry paid an obscene amount of money for the wand in the end, draining his purse to a few galleons, and he hurried out of the store.

Harry went to the pet store mostly to window shop, but Harry felt his heart stop as his eyes landed on an owl. She was _beautiful_ ; white feathered and sharp eyed. She looked at him piercingly, a strange pull drawing him in, but Harry realised with a start that she was much more than he could possibly afford. And he definitely did not want a repeat experience of Gringotts Bank. So he sighed wistfully and moved on, passing by all kinds of creatures, magical and muggle. Harry stopped in front of a display which appeared to be mostly empty. He looked through the metal bars and realised that a kitten, perhaps a few months old, hid in the back. In the white cell of its containment, the kitten's white fur acted as a very good camouflage.

Harry felt instant empathy fill his being as he watched the kitten hide from view, pretending to not be seen.

Harry opened the cage and reached in. At first, the kitten seemed very scared, lashing out with tiny claws, but as Harry cooed and stroked and whispered sweetly at the tiny beast, it slowly warmed to him. _Two Galleons_ , the sign read. Harry smiled.

* * *

Harry dragged his belongings to Private Drive after battling for a seat on the train. Thankfully his little trunk, just a bit bigger than a breadbox, held an impossible amount of stuff (expanding, the shopkeeper crowed), and it was not very heavy either. Harry was beginning to realise that witches and wizards were very, very clever.

The hardest thing to do was to hide his kitten from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; Cousin Dudley wasn't home often as he was busy growing up to be a thug on the streets, so Harry wasn't too worried about him.

Luckily, the little white kitten knew when to be quiet and was very easily trained to go to the bathroom in the garden in the morning when Harry did his chores and just before bed, after which Harry would slink into his cupboard and close the door.

Harry spent most of his free time reading through _Hogwarts: A History_ and his schoolbooks, kitten sitting on his chest and purring as he gently scratched its soft, pointy ears. Harry had a _lot_ to catch up on. Harry was grateful that the history book told him how to get to the train station and he dreamt of what a school of magic would be like.


	3. Chapter 3: Kitten, Witch, Cupboard

**Chapter 3: The Kitten, the Witch and the Cupboard**

The trip to Hogwarts went very similarly like the train from Surrey to London. Harry was bustled into a carriage by the rush of students, ending up in a small room with four Ravenclaw girls. Harry only discovered this because they told him so, cooing and patting his head as they giggled about how ' _cute'_ he was. Harry smiled at them disarmingly, increasing his need to be Not Seen a little frantically, and the girls quickly returned to their chattering. It seemed that teenage girls, of which Harry had very little experience before, had much to say. The conversation went on for hours and Harry pulled out a school book, carefully wading through the text and ignoring the chatter around him.

It appeared that reading was something that the Ravenclaws enjoyed, for the girls finally settled and pulled out their own schoolwork too. They poured over theories and Latin words that made Harry's head spin at their complexity; he wondered if he would need to learn all of this as well.

Dismounting from the train was also a mission, as the girls quickly forgot him and dashed out of the carriage. Harry was swept through the crowds, pushed and bustled as the students parted ways. Harry frowned, wondering where to go, when a giant-sized man called the first years over. Harry followed compliantly, finally settling in a boat with no oars.

Harry appreciated the Strange Thing occurring to the boats as he was pulled over the lake, the full moon reflecting on the glassy waters. He was bundled with another group of girls and a shy, plump boy, who also failed to take notice of him other than smiling politely. Harry gasped alongside his peers as the castle came into view and he was pleased to think that he had made the right choice in coming to Hogwarts.

Harry found himself beginning to tire as the first years stood in the hall, dressed down by a stern looking woman who announced herself as _Professor McGonagall_. Harry decided immediately that he would not get on this woman's bad side, intentionally or not.

The ghosts in the castle came to greet them, which was alarming and yet not as Harry had read about them in _Hogwarts: A History_. Harry found himself hanging in the back of the group, smiling as the ghosts whipped around and gossiped loudly. The Bloody Baron, whose name was murmured with distress by the other students, was the only ghost to look directly at Harry. He felt a shiver of apprehension buckle down his spine as the ghost pinned him with an icy stare, the large stain in front of his robes glittering eerily in the candlelight. Harry nodded at the ghost and broke eye contact, staring at a wall blankly and wishing the ghost would go away. It did.

By the time the Sorting had reached the _'M'_ names, Harry was exhausted. A lithe, sharp featured boy practically pranced up to the stool and placed the Strange talking hat on his head. Even before the fabric crowned his slicked blond hair, the hat shouted _'Slytherin!'_

The Slytherins clapped while the other houses looked on in distain, a few of the Ravenclaw students clapping unenthusiastically.

At last, Harry heard his name called and he blushed, knowing that his ability to be Not Seen wouldn't work under direct address. A few students gasped and a large portion of the students in the back of the hall stood, craning their necks to catch a glimpse. Harry wasn't sure why, but it was very alarming behaviour as the students hadn't reacted this way towards the other first years.

Harry slunk up to the stool and placed the hat on his head, grateful when the worn fabric fell over his eyes and hid the room from sight.

 _'Oh, my,'_ a voice announced in his head. Harry blinked owlishly at the words. ' _You have quite the interesting tale_ ,' it continued.

Harry thought hard, eyebrows drawing together. ' _Can you hear me?'_ Harry thought curiously.

 _'Oh yes,_ ' the voice answered. _'I can hear quite a lot of your thoughts. Your mind is not very well guarded,_ ' it continued. _'One could say unnaturally so.'_

Harry tilted his head at that. ' _Is my skull too thin?'_ Harry asked sceptically.

Laughter boomed from the hat, filling his head and spilling into the Great Hall. Harry was once again glad that he couldn't see the students; the hat certainly hadn't laughed during the Sortings.

' _No, no,'_ the hat chuckled in his mind. ' _You have a very strange mind indeed. 'Strange Things', you say? I'm sure we call that a spell.'_

Harry listened. A spell – that made more sense. ' _I guess I am very boring –'_ He began to think rather complacently.

 _'Don't be ridiculous – you're probably the most interesting child I've sorted in years!'_ The hat admonished. _'But we're going off course. Slytherin, I dare say. You're definitely sneaky and devious enough.'_

Harry thought long and hard for a moment, ignoring the odd feeling of the hat's words washing through his head. ' _Okay,'_ Harry answered simply, shifting his hands to remove the hat.

 _'Wait – aren't you going to argue?'_ The hat answered back, surprise colouring his tone.

 _'No?'_ Harry answered unsurely, hands freezing in the air. ' _Am I supposed to? I would think it's rude to argue, especially since this is your job and I'm sure you know lots more than me.'_

The hat didn't seem to have an answer to that, quietly mulling over his words. _'I suppose,_ ' the hat finally said at last, as if the fun had been sucked out of Harry's Sorting. ' _No complaints?'_ The hat asked abruptly. _'No whining if you go into Slytherin?'_

Harry frowned thoughtfully, turning the question over. ' _I… I don't think so,'_ Harry answered after what seemed to be an appropriate time to consider the question.

"Very well," the hat stated moodily, now using his voice rather than telepathy. "Better be – SLYTHERIN!" The hat boomed, making Harry jump in surprise at the volume.

Harry pulled the hat off his head was a little upset that no one clapped as they had with the others. Even though Slytherin was the only house to cheer when a student was sorted into their ranks (only a smattering of outside students clapping politely), the entire Great Hall was deathly silent. The Gryffindor table gaped, the Huffepuffs blinked, and the Ravenclaws burst into fierce whispers. Even the Slytherins seemed shocked, blank faces looking at Harry in ashen confusion.

Harry stood and placed the hat down on the stool, bending over to whisper his farewell. The hat merely chuckled and the tip of the peaked hat dipped in a mimicry of a nod.

The small, raven-haired boy walked over to the house with green ties, waffling slightly when open spots on the benches were suddenly filled as the students stretched out. Harry walked down the long table, finally coming across the gap of students that his housemates had yet to fill. Harry sat down patiently amongst what appeared to be seventh years, as they looked to be eldest of the table, and smiled at them politely.

A couple students sneered at him openly, but most of his housemates seemed suddenly fascinated with the cutlery and chinaware on the table.

McGonagall cleared her throat loudly at the front of the Great Hall but no one turned to face her, all eyes burning into Harry's back. He wished desperately that the other houses would ignore him, forget him, _Unsee_ him, but nothing happened. Harry sighed softly as McGonagall cleared her throat loudly once more, the students finally turning back to the Sorting as another name was called.

The Sorting didn't last long after that. Harry sat patiently with his hands in his lap as a wizened old man, who looked exactly how Harry would have expected a wizard to look, gave an odd speech. The old man's bright blue eyes passed by Harry's side of the table, but something about that man scared Harry, so he ducked his head and picked at his fraying sleeve. The wizard seemed to have piercing eyes, eyes that saw everything and everyone for what they were. The thought had Harry shuddering.

When dinner was announced, Harry gaped at the platters of food, the carafes of drink, the impossible mound of every possible meal appearing with much fanfare.

"What, never seen food before?" Sneered an unnamed seventh year (from what Harry assumed, for he looked so old) directly to his left. Harry turned to him, keeping small and unnoticeable, and smiled unsurely at the student. The seventh year pursed his lips and returned to his food, as Harry had hoped, and Harry carefully snuck a few items on to his plate and feeling a little naughty while doing so. Harry was never allowed to eat at a table; he either ate while he cooked or worked, or at his desk at school. Harry had never sat down at a banquet.

"Ugh," a voice cut through. Harry looked up to see a rather beautiful blonde girl twisting her face in disgust from across the table. She looked like a seventh year too. Harry looked around, realising he was very far away from students his own age and then looked down at his plate. He wasn't using his cutlery like the other students and blushing brightly as he realised that he was supposed to. "Use your silverware, you animal. Were you raised by _Muggles_?" The girl asked scathingly, tossing her head.

Harry tilted his head at her question, unsure why she had asked. "Yes," Harry answered politely, wiping gravy off his fingertips and jaw with a thick napkin. Though he'd only had a couple small pieces of chicken, Harry didn't feel very hungry anymore.

Even though she had asked the question, the girl looked taken aback by his answer. In fact, everyone in the vicinity who heard seemed taken aback too.

"Seriously?" The boy from before questioned, making Harry turn to him.

"Yes," Harry answered simply, looking up at the boy owlishly through his large glasses.

"Oh. Um, okay," the blonde girl was suddenly saying. "You don't – you're not, like, a blood traitor or anything, are you?"

"Of course he is," hissed the boy, "he's a _Potter_."

Harry watched this interaction curiously, listening to the words in bafflement and unsure of the subtext. Harry slowly curled in on himself, becoming a smaller target on the bench, and the girl and boy seemed to forget he was there completely. Harry seemed largely successful at wishing to be Not Seen, for the other students' eyes roved over him, not stopping nor focusing on him. Harry pushed his plate forward, placed his forearms on the table and rested his cheek on his laced fingers, kicking his feet as he waited for the end of the feast. Harry was so very, very tired and the smells of food, the warmth of the room, the stress of the day – Harry dozed off.

"Hey, Potter!" A voice cut through his light dozing. Harry opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the boy on his left. "Are you actually _sleeping_?" The boy asked, aghast.

"Yes," Harry answered, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. "Is that rude too?" Harry asked curiously.

"Well," the boy started, surprised. "It's pretty stupid, seeing how most people at this table want to skin you alive."

Harry looked at the boy with wide eyes, mouth twisting as he absorbed this information. "But why?" Harry asked.

The boy looked at him then with such bafflement that Harry felt stupid, like he had with the goblins at Gringotts Bank. Harry didn't particularly like the feeling.

"Um, _you know_ ," the blonde girl cut in, ignoring the other students that watched their conversation out of the corner of their eyes. Harry was very good at noticing when people noticed him.

"No," Harry answered curiously. "I don't."

"Potter," a new boy cut in from his right, dark and handsome and possibly in seventh year too. "When you say that you were raised _by_ Muggles… Does that mean you were raised Muggle too?"

A few other students leaned in close to hear the answer, his half of the Slytherin table going quiet.

"I suppose so," Harry answered unsurely. This lot didn't seem to be the kind that liked receiving half-truths but did prefer them over no answer at all.

"Harry," the blonde girl cut through, eyes narrowing at him. Harry shrunk further into his seat, feeling the older students towering over him. "How did you get your scar?"

Harry frowned at the question, looking around as a student down the table gasped and the others shifted uncomfortably. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said it was a car crash, but that was looking less plausible by the day. His parents must be magical, if he had a bank account at Gringotts with their name on it, and Harry supposed that most witches and wizards didn't drive around often. Besides, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren't exactly known for telling the truth to Harry.

"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully.

"Merlin," the boy to his left breathed, as the girl gasped sharply. "You're a clean slate, aren't you?"

Harry didn't know what that meant, so he smiled unsurely at the boy and wished that he could just be forgotten. It didn't work.

Just as the blonde girl opened her mouth once more to talk, the Headmaster stood to his feet and the hall went silent. The girl closed her mouth with an audible click but continued at Harry intently.

The Headmaster, whom Harry had yet to find out his name, said a few strange words once more. Harry wasn't sure why an entire floor of the school was unusable, nor why a forest would be forbidden, but he was too tired to care. The students took his odd string of incoherent words as a dismissal and stood quickly. Harry stood to join them and fingers laced through his.

Harry looked up in surprise at the tall, dark boy from his right in surprise. He felt a blush slash across his face at the touch, something he wasn't familiar with. Harry thought for a moment and realised he couldn't remember the last time _anyone_ touched him (bar the evil little goblins).

"Come on, Harry," the handsome boy crooned. "We'll take you to the Common Rooms."

Harry let himself be pulled along, too tired to protest and secretly enjoying the feeling of holding someone's hand. Not that he'd ever admit it.

* * *

The Slytherin Common Room was very far down in the castle and Harry felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of being underground. He gaped at the sight of a lake hovering over the Common Room, watching the odd green light bathe everything in its glow. The furnishings were expensive, the fireplace crackled ominously, and the other students watched him like a hawk. Harry wished he could go to bed.

The blonde girl pulled Harry away from the tall, dark boy and sat him on her lap as she leaned back on a large leather sofa. Harry felt his blush make a reappearance, a little embarrassed with how easily the beautiful girl could manhandle him. His feet dangled off the floor as she pulled him close, his back pressed against her chest. She was very warm, though perhaps a little bony, but Harry sighed into her frame and pretended that no one else was watching.

The other First Years seemed affronted that Harry was kidnapped by the Seventh Years and squabbled on the other side of the Common Room, a circle of children shooting him dark looks. Harry shivered and sunk deeper into the girl's lap.

"We'll take care of you, Harry," the girl murmured in his ear. Harry turned his head and looked at her in surprise.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," Harry answered a little firmly, though he whispered so the other gossiping students couldn't hear. "I'm very good at taking care of myself."

The blonde girl's eyebrows drew together at his statement, eyes narrowing in thought. "When was the last time someone took care of you, sweetheart?" She asked, her lips twisting into a frown.

Harry considered that for a while. "I don't know what you mean," Harry finally answered at last. The girl's eyes only narrowed further at his words, though Harry didn't know why, but she was stopped from talking once more by the appearance of a bat.

Well, that's what it looked like to Harry. A large, very pale man swooped into the room, expensively tailored robes blooming behind him in a non-existent draft. Harry froze as the man's black eyes swept over the room and settled on him, eyes pinning him with alarming clarity. Harry looked down as something shifted in his stomach, recalling the hat's words from before. He wondered if this man could read his mind too and shivered at the thought.

"Welcome to the new school year," the man suddenly crooned, his words as thick as honey but without a single bit of sweetness. "I am Severus Snape, the Slytherin Head of House. You will refer to me as Professor Snape, or Sir.

"Slytherin has been a stronghold, a _tradition_ , of Hogwarts for centuries. No matter your blood, no matter your background, you are now one of us. You will uphold that tenant and there will be no fighting in public. You are to provide a united front. You will not lose points. You will finish your homework and do well in class. Do you have any questions?" The man asked coldly and Harry realised that it was largely rhetorical. The man didn't seem the kind to answer just any question.

A hand rose in the air and the students focused on the blond first year with a last name beginning in _M_. Harry couldn't remember.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," the Head of House stated, icy gaze turning to the confident boy.

"What about Potter?" The blond sneered. A few titters broke out at that question, but Snape silenced them all with a look.

Harry wasn't sure why the blond boy had mentioned him. People seemed to be doing that a lot now.

"The same applies _. No fighting_ outside of these walls," Snape emphasised, though looking as if he bit into a lemon as he did so.

The blond boy smirked at the emphasis. Harry wondered if fighting _inside_ the Common Room was allowed.

"Go to bed. Curfew is at nine for the younger years, ten thirty for the fifth years and up. Don't make me come after you," Snape snarled. Harry clenched his hands together so tightly that they went white as the man's stare once more flickered to himself. The blonde girl's arms wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him even closer to her frame, and the Head of House's gaze flickered to the girl. She stiffened.

"My office is down the hall, to the right. Do not disturb me unless you are dying or worse," the bat said. Harry nodded along with the other students, wondering what was worse than dying. Professor Snape then swooped out of the Common Room as soon as he had arrived and the room broke out into loud conversation.

"What's your name?" Harry asked suddenly, turning to the blonde girl. She looked at him in surprise then, blinking.

"Oh, sorry love," she answered. "Macaria Greengrass," she stated, "But you can call me Mollie."

"Mollie," Harry answered, rolling the name on his tongue. It suited her.

"I'm Damon," the handsome boy who held his hand before cut in, looking down at Harry with a smirk as he hovered over the young boy and Mollie. A hand was reached out to shake his, but Harry felt that he had enough touching for tonight (especially since he was still on Mollie's lap) and he merely smiled politely back.

"Andrea Dolohov," the boy who spoke to him at the Feast butt in, collapsing into an armchair as Mollie waved off Damon with a dismissive hand and roll of her eyes.

"My second cousin, Daphne, is in your year," Mollie quipped suddenly, looking over at the group of first years by a large hearth. "Perhaps she'll take care of you, too."

Harry frowned, becoming irritated with Mollie's obsession of him needing taking care of. "I'm very independent," Harry stated.

"I'm sure," Mollie laughed. "But you can hardly go through life as an island."

Harry didn't know what she meant, but he assumed it meant he had to be with other people. "I can try," Harry answered.

Mollie laughed, ruffling his hair. "You are _so cute_ ," she giggled.

"How can you tell?" Andrea asked, rolling his eyes. "I can't see anything past that mop of hair and those horrible glasses."

Mollie's hands were suddenly on his face and Harry inhaled sharply as his glasses were pulled off. Harry stiffened immediately, suddenly feeling just as exposed now as he had with the goblins. He desperately hoped that his group wouldn't tie him to a chair and force him to swallow truth-drink too.

A blurry shape where Harry knew Damon to be moved forward suddenly and Harry flinched back, horribly unsure of what was happening. He reached out for his glasses blindly, blushing darkly as he tried to pull his fringe over his face.

"Harry," the girl breathed, a soft finger guiding under his chin. Harry protested against the finger's attempts to lift his chin, but he was too tired to put up much of a fight.

Harry lifted his face to Mollie's, neck bent as he looked at her with wide, worried eyes.

"You are _gorgeous_ ," Mollie whispered. Harry blushed darker at that; Harry knew it wasn't true and compliments were not something that Harry was used to.

A hand grabbed his chin and Harry jumped as his jaw was yanked out of Mollie's hold, coming face to face with Damon, warily watching the elder boy's features as they neared. Their noses almost touched as he was studied like a bug on a microscope.

"Fascinating," Damon whispered as he kneeled in front of Mollie and, thus, Harry. Harry suddenly realised that this boy had very blue eyes. They looked like the Headmaster's and it made Harry very uncomfortable.

Harry tried to tug his chin away, suddenly feeling very trapped between Mollie's ironclad forearms locked around his waist and Damon's tight grip. A feeling of panic welled in his stomach as Harry realised that he didn't know where his glasses were and everyone in the room was likely looking at him, catching him out for doing a Strange Thing – or spell, did the hat call it?

"Aw," Damon suddenly crooned. "There's no need to cry, Harry."

Harry blushed as he realised that the blurriness in his eyes wasn't helped by the welling of tears and he made one final jerk of his jaw, thankfully pulling away from Damon's tight hand. Mollie gasped, and easily rotated him with nimble hands so that he sat across her lap.

"Oh, Harry," Mollie whispered, holding his glasses out in front of him. "Don't cry, sweetheart."

Harry scowled and grabbed his glasses, pulling them back on as quickly as possible and willing the tears to go away. There was something off about these students, a dark undertone that made Harry feel uncomfortable. He had a feeling that Mollie was pretending to be someone that she wasn't, that Damon was not very nice, and that Andrea might be the only one close to normal of the group. But even Andrea gave him a bad feeling and that worried him most of all.

Harry learned a lot by watching people from the other side of the glass, cataloguing their behaviours and words with the fascination of an anthropologist. An outside observer with no role or part in the game. He might seem small and innocent to these Seventh Years, but Harry _knew_ that he wasn't an idiot. He just didn't know the rules of their game yet.

"And there you go," Andrea whispered, watching the younger boy curiously as he became Boring Harry. "Odd glasses you've got there, Harry."

Harry relaxed, retreating into himself and closing the door firmly behind. He smiled at the boy glassily, expression cleared from his earlier distress.

"So many layers," Damon whispered, leaning forward with a curled hand to stroke well-manicured nails down the side of his face.

"I'm very tired," Harry said softly, ignoring the boy's touch as he felt his mind beginning to shut down. "Would it be alright if I went to bed?" He asked Mollie, turning his head to look at her calculating eyes and ignoring Damon. The boy didn't seem to like that, for he huffed and sat down on the sofa next to them with a scowl.

"Of course, sweetheart," Mollie crooned, snuggling him closer. Harry felt his stomach clench; it wasn't a pleasant feeling. "Your room is down the hall, seventh door on the left. Your stuff should be in there by now."

Harry smiled at her blankly, wishing _Very Hard_ that he could pass through the Common Rooms unnoticed. Mollie smiled back, but it was a strange expression on her beautiful face – as if her cheek muscles weren't used to it. She released him and Harry quickly strode across the room, not daring to speak to Damon or Andrea and making quick work of finding his dorm.

As he'd wished, the other students barely noticed him as he passed by and Harry breathed a sigh of relief once the door shut behind him. It appeared he was the first student to go to sleep and he checked under the bed, relived when he saw his school shopping. His trunk of school supplies was much smaller than his other dormmates, perhaps a fifth of the size. Harry wondered what else a student would bring to school, besides a change of clothes and the school's required list.

Harry wondered where his cat was. As if summoned, a weak mewling could be heard under the covers of the bed and a little ball moved around under the duvet. Harry smiled and peeled back the blanket, his eyes settling on a fluffy white kitten.

"Hello, there," Harry whispered, his chest aching in adoration at the little creature's meows of excitement. "I'm sorry I had to leave you with the other pets. Did you make any friends?"

The kitten mewled his response and Harry sighed, crawling into the bed after quickly changing into his nightclothes. The kitten hopped up on his chest and Harry kept very still as it kneaded, turning on the spot and settling just below his breast bone. The kitten fell asleep instantly and Harry felt himself drawn into sleep by the kitten's warmth, the soft snores making him smile.

* * *

 _A/N: This story has taken an odd turn from what I originally planned; I guess I should class it as a Slytherin!Harry now? Hope you're still enjoying._


	4. Chapter 4: An Unforgettable Lesson

**Chapter 4: An Unforgettable Lesson**

Harry awoke suddenly at some point in the night, inhaling sharply as he realised that he was wet. Harry sat up quickly, body shaking in mortification. Had he wet the bed? He hadn't done so in _years_! A strange dripping sound caught his attention and as Harry's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realised his curtains were pulled around his bed. Harry didn't recall doing that and wondered what was going on.

Harry held out his hand and wished for light, as he often did in the cupboard under the stairs. A small glowing ball erupted on his palm and Harry froze in horror.

Hanging over his stomach from the top beams of the four poster bed was his kitten, eyes open glassily and throat slashed. Its white fur was stained a startling red, a horrible burst of colour against its soft downy fur. Blood oozed from the jagged wound, cold, and dripped on Harry's lap.

Harry watched in mind-numbing horror, staring blankly ahead as the creature spun slightly in the light draft of the room. Every muscle in Harry's body ached, his mind empty and heart suddenly hollow. After a few moments of staring blankly, Harry slowly rose to his knees and lifted his hands. The ball of light stuck to his palm and guided his shaking hands as he untied the thick knot on the creature's neck.

Harry felt the stiff, light weight of the kitten drop into his hands and he nearly vomited. Harry kept still as he tried to think what to do. Harry realised that it was important to bury something when it died. He didn't know why, but a funeral seemed appropriate. His mind shuttered and scrambled, thinking of where to go.

Harry slowly peaked open the canopy of his four poster bed, extinguishing the light as he did so. His eyes once more adjusted to the darkness and he saw that the other five beds in the room had their curtains closed, like his. Light breathing filled the room and Harry wished Very Hard that everyone would be deeply asleep. After a few moments, the breathing became heavier and Harry felt sure that he wouldn't be disturbed.

Harry pulled his robe over his night clothes, shuddering at the feeling of blood dripping down his legs as he stood. Harry snuck out of the dorm room, quietly whispering down the hall on bare feet. He passed through the Common Rooms portal, trying to remember the password to get back in but his mind was too scattered and diced to concentrate.

Harry wandered around for nearly half an hour, going up stairs and across landings as he searched for an exit. The little kitten was nearly completely hard in his hands and Harry wished more than anything that he could find the outdoors.

Harry's feet lead him to a large set of oak doors and Harry pulled on the handle. His fingers slipped as the blood on his hands made it difficult to grasp the handle, but Harry persisted and the door finally creaked open. Harry looked out at a large, grassy field and the moon shone down brightly, casting the scene with eerie light and strange shadows. Harry trotted down the steps, barely registering his cold feet. He walked across the grass towards the edge of a large forest, wondering distantly if this was the Forbidden Forest the Headmaster had spoken of.

Harry stopped as soon as he came across a line of trees. He fell to his knees, body numb from chill and horror, and placed the kitten down softly. Harry turned to the hard dirt and beginning to dig with his hands. Harry didn't take notice as little stones cut into his hands, ripping back the dirt with mindless obsession.

"You shouldn't be walking around at night," a voice murmured behind him.

Harry turned on his knees slowly, eyes clashing with those of a tall, turbaned man. Harry recognised him as a teacher from the table at the front of the Great Hall and he blanched.

"And you shouldn't come to the edge of the forest reeking of blood," the man continued, voice unnaturally deep and dangerous. The man's eyes flickered to the kitten on the ground, glowing orbs in the darkness, head tilting curiously. "Did you kill it?" He asked blankly.

Harry looked at the man, uncomfortable with how easily the man saw through his invisibility and watched him with piercing eyes. "No," Harry whispered.

"Was it yours?" The man questioned once more, moonlight streaming over his back and shadowing his face. Harry felt the cold begin to seep into his bones, the man's tall shadow looming over Harry.

"Yes," Harry answered back, voice barely audible even in the dead silence.

"They're testing you," the man stated. "They want to see if they can push you around. I suggest you push them back."

Harry didn't answer, but he didn't turn around either. This man didn't seem like someone he wanted to turn his back to.

"I don't push very hard," Harry whispered.

"Then learn how to," the man responded.

"Is it alright if I finish?" Harry asked suddenly, not wanting to be around this man or at the edge of the forest. There was a strange clicking noise coming from just a few trees away and it filled Harry's stomach with dread.

"If you must," the man replied, frown evident in his voice.

Harry turned back around, ignoring his instincts telling him not to, and placed the kitten in the small hole. Harry then carefully pushed the dirt over it, creating a small mound. He lifted a stick and speared it through a leaf, putting the little flag at the top of the mound like a tombstone.

"Done?" The professor asked sarcastically.

Harry wondered if all professors were like this man. Judging by Snape's warmth during the Slytherin meeting, it seemed likely.

"Get up. I'm taking you back to your dorm," the man stated. Harry stood to his feet, watching the man's strange move. He acted as if controlled like a marionette, jerky but smooth in all the wrong places. It made Harry's skin crawl.

"No, thank you," Harry answered politely, firmly.

"Don't you want to clean up?" The man asked, turning and raising an eyebrow. His face came into view in the moonlight and Harry was surprised to see a once handsome man, whose features were slowly fading into nothing, as if the life was being sucked right out of him.

Harry looked at the lake, wondering if it would be cold.

"I'd advise against it," the man murmured, following his line of sight. "The squid wouldn't mind. But the grindylows would frenzy over the blood."

Harry looked at him curiously, eyes narrowing in thought at the man's incomprehensible words. Harry wondered if he should ask him what a grindylow was. He decided not to. "I don't want to go back," Harry answered firmly. "Is there a gym here that I can shower in?"

The man laughed, but it was an odd, echoing noise that rose the hairs on Harry's arms. "Yes, but it's not heated. Come, you can clean up in my chambers."

Harry didn't like the thought of being alone with this man any longer, but he had a feeling that the statement was more command than invitation. Harry followed the man miserably towards the castle, wincing at the sight of small, bloody footprints marring the castle steps.

"You quite literally left a trail," the man murmured, hand passing over the dark dried blood on the handle of the grand doors. "You'll have to be more aware of yourself, child, if you plan to survive."

Harry didn't have time to ponder on those words, for the professor strode down the hallway quickly. Harry trotted as he followed behind, his skin long gone cool and flesh numbing with the chill. Even his insides felt cold, his stomach rolling and chest empty.

They arrived at a large wooden door after a while of walking, Harry's body aching, and the turbaned professor turned to Harry.

"After you," he announced, pushing the door open after an inaudible password was whispered to the frame. Harry stepped inside and was taken aback by the taxidermied creatures lining the walls and jars of pickled eyes.

"The wet room is down the hall. Don't take too long," the man stated. Harry quickly followed his instructions and closed the door firmly behind him. Harry leant against the door and wished Very Hard that the door wouldn't open until he asked it to. He felt the magic take shape and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Harry showered quickly, washing his hair and the thin layer of browning blood off his frame. Harry then turned to his clothes, pulling them into the shower and washing them out too. Harry only had a few changes of clothes and wasn't even sure how to do laundry at the castle. Did they have washing machines and dryers?

Harry stepped out of the shower, drying himself off with a wish and evaporating the water from his clothes. He dressed quickly and realised how much better he felt now that the kitten's blood was gone.

Harry realised he had yet to name the kitten. A sob tore through his chest, surprising himself. A flood of emotions suddenly filled him, his detached apathy quivering under the tsunami. Harry gripped the sink edge and felt large, hot droplets drip from his eyes. Harry shook as he tried to control himself, wishing desperately that the professor wasn't able to hear him break.

After a few moments, Harry drank cool water directly from the tap and felt himself calm, sinking back into that shocked state of detachment. He washed his face off, put his glasses on and righted his clothes.

Harry walked back into the man's chambers and nodded at the man, who sat in a large armchair by the fire and sprawled out as if the worn leather chair were a throne.

"What's your name?" Harry asked suddenly, blushing as the words tumbled from his mouth before he could think.

The professor turned to him, eyes almost appearing to glow red in the firelight.

"Quirrell," the man stated, turning back to the fire moodily, but Harry didn't think he was telling the truth.

"No," Harry contradicted in a soft murmur, tilting his head as he looked at the professor. "Have we met before?" He asked, curiously.

The man's head whipped around to face him, eyes now definitely glowing red. "What did you say?" He hissed, unnaturally sharp teeth bared.

"Are you a vampire?" Harry pressed, watching the man's reaction carefully. "That would be odd, though, because you smell like garlic and I didn't think that vampires liked garlic."

The man gaped at him, all fury disappearing as he blinked confusedly. "You are a very strange child," Quirrell (for that was all Harry could refer to him for now) stated.

Harry hummed noncommittedly. "What do you teach?" Harry queried.

The man smirked, cheekbones alight in the glow of the flames. "Defence Against the Dark Arts," he drawled, as if telling an inside joke.

"What does that consist of?" Harry asked curiously.

"You never stop talking, do you?" Quirrell muttered irritably. "Shut up and sit down."

Harry didn't think that professors were supposed to talk like that, but it seemed like something that Professor Snape would say too, so perhaps wizards just weren't very nice. From his experience so far, that theory seemed entirely plausible.

Harry sat down on an ottoman across the hearth from the man, wrapping his hands around his knees.

"You have a very odd illusion on you," Quirrell stated suddenly. "Why?"

Harry looked at the man, surprised. "Why not?" He asked, shrugging. Harry had become very good at deflecting questions.

Quirrell looked less than appeased.

"Do you know much about potions?" Harry asked, changing the subject. Quirrell sneered at him.

"Enough to get by," he stated darkly. Harry had the feeling that was something someone would say when they were either very poor at something or very, very good. He wasn't sure which one Quirrell was.

"Do you know of a clear potion that makes you tell the truth?" Harry enquired, gazing into the fire.

"Why?" Quirrell demanded, hackles rising at the question.

"The goblins made me drink it," Harry answered simply, realising that the man probably thought he was threatening him. Harry didn't mind.

"Veritaserum," the man breathed, a dark smirk shadowing his face. "You must have upset them."

"I didn't mean to," Harry whispered.

"No one ever does," Quirrell replied, turning back to the fire. "Aren't you tired?" He asked suddenly, the tension in the room shifting as the conversation turned abruptly.

"No," Harry answered, despite the exhaustion clawing at his mind.

Quirrell laughed. "I can tell when you're lying."

Harry looked at him then, appraising the man. "How?" Harry asked, eyebrows drawing together.

"For one, you're a terrible liar. You'll need to get better at that, if you plan to survive Slytherin," Quirrell quipped, lips quirking in a mockery of a smile.

"And second?" Harry pressed.

"That's none of your concern," Quirrell whispered, darkly amused. "Come now, I'll take you back to your Common Rooms."

Harry sighed, realising he'd lost the battle and surprised to discover that he'd rather spend the rest of the night talking to this strange, dangerous shadow of a person instead of returning to the dorms he was meant to spend the next seven years.

Harry followed Quirrell as he was led back down into the dungeons. They walked in silence, Harry a few steps behind the tall man and peaking up at his turban occasionally. It smelt gross and caused a greasy, odd feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

They stopped just before the Common Rooms entrance, the stone wall appearing for all intents and purposes unmovable. It reminded Harry of the pub entrance to Diagon Alley, but more ominous. Harry tried to stall.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Harry questioned, turning to the professor. He didn't particularly want to, but it seemed like a good idea to keep tabs on this man.

Quirrell turned to Harry, a dark glint in his eye. "I'll have you in class tomorrow. Though you won't recognise me, child," he stated cryptically.

"Are you going to make me forget?" Harry asked warily.

Quirrell snorted a laugh. "I don't go Oblivating children," he answered. "At least, not anymore. Besides, this is interesting."

With that, the man leant down and whispered the password against the stone wall. The stone blocks began to move, melting away to reveal green-lit Common Rooms. Mollie sat in the room, wringing her hands nervously next to an ashen faced Andrea and a rather unimpressed, tired looking Damon.

Harry was pushed forward unceremoniously. "You should keep a better eye on your belongings," Quirrell stated, though Harry wasn't sure if the man was talking to him or Mollie.

Mollie gasped and lurched to her feet, catching Harry as he stumbled. Harry turned just in time to see a turban move through the entrance portal, disappearing down the hall.

"Merlin, Harry," Mollie whispered as she fell to her knees and hugged him tightly. "What happened?"

Harry smiled at her hollowly. "Nothing at all," he answered genially. "What does Oblivate mean?"


	5. Chapter 5: Trial And Error

**Chapter 5: Trial And Error**

The following week passed by very slowly at first, then sped up as Harry fell into a routine. He had finally questioned his popularity and Mollie regaled the tale of his childhood, bringing down a Dark Lord and his parents dying in his defense. The girl made him borrow many books about himself from the library and Harry's eyes widened to saucers as he read the fantastical tales theorising his disappearance from public eye. Harry wished he had spent the years learning martial arts in China, or sword fighting in Russia, or even curse-breaking in Egypt. That sounded much more fun than playing domestic servant for the Dursleys.

Harry decided that he wouldn't sleep in the dorms anymore, feeling a little wary of his dormmates and too open in the large space. The day after his kitten was murdered, Harry found a dusty broom closet that didn't appear to have been used in years; it was even a little larger than his cupboard under the stairs. He wished Very Hard that no one would be able to find it and promptly moved his stuff into the cramped storage space. As he lay there on his second night at Hogwarts, Harry realised how much he missed tight, dark havens and spiders spinning webs in the ceiling spaces.

Harry kept his bed curtains wished closed and didn't bother cleaning up the blood. Harry used the shower in his dorm room still, as he didn't feel like imposing on the strange Quirrell anymore, and Harry smiled to himself at the coppery, tangy stench building in the room.

Quirrell was indeed a very different person than he met the first night. He hardly recognised him if it weren't for the turban. The stuttering, fidgety professor barely making his way through the lessons was nothing like Harry recalled and he would have thought that he had imagined their first meeting if the man didn't look at him ever so often with a flash of red in his eye.

Harry was pushed towards his housemates by an exasperated Mollie, who seemed to become bored with his presence as the days went on and his presence didn't increase her social standing. Harry didn't mind. The tumultuous rumour mill swirling around him slowly evaporated as the days passed, the students beginning to realise that Harry was Very Boring. The students seemed disappointed at first, but as the days passed, his peers seemed to forget he even existed. Sure, they talked about Harry Potter. But the odd, small, unnoticeable boy in Slytherin didn't fit their mould of the hero, so they ignored him in favour of imagining the strong, brash Gryffindor that he should have been.

Harry, again, didn't mind. It was nice to slowly fade into the background once more, to become less interesting than the drab wallpaper glued to the walls of No. Four Private Drive.

Draco Malfoy seemed to rule the roost of Slytherin firsties and apparently inspired fear in the hearts of the eleven-year-old children in the other houses. Harry didn't understand why; Malfoy appeared to be more bark than bite. Perhaps these children had never been bullied before. When the blond cornered him after potions with a wand in his face, Professor Snape walking out of the room as if not noticing, Harry stared blankly at him, a bubble of disparaging laughter filling his chest. Malfoy demanded to know if he was sleeping in the dorms, if he was sleeping alongside his pet's rotting corpse. Demanded that he remove the stench in the room.

Harry did his best impression of Quirrell's dark smirk and didn't answer, turning on his foot and walking out of the classroom. That seemed to upset Malfoy. The blond didn't bother him after.

To be honest, Harry wasn't sleeping well, as his dreams were often filled with memories of blood and glassy eyes, and it showed. As the first week melted into the second, and the second into the third, Harry spent most of his time in the library pouring over his studies. Harry felt like he had been dropped into the deep end, without the aid or tutorage that his peers had received in preparation of Hogwarts. The only other muggleborn who seemed as desperate as him to catch up was a bossy Gryffindor girl named Hermione. They would sit at a desk between the shelves in the library, not speaking except to swap notes, hands cramping as they filled out page after page of parchment.

Harry didn't particularly care for Hermione at first, but she seemed to be the only one besides Quirrell who didn't immediately dismiss him or want something from him besides his personality, unlike Mollie and her two male friends. Despite his attempts to remain hidden, there was a small part of him that felt satisfaction when he was noticed despite being Unseen. It was a dangerous feeling and Harry realised he should probably squash it while he could. He didn't.

For the first week of class, Harry often forgot to bring his wand to class, irritated that he wasn't supposed to go without it until fifth year. It seemed like a waste of energy and magic to spend endless days waving a stick. Instead of wishing to get what he wanted, Harry needed to know endless Latin words and waving gestures. It made sense if he wanted a very particular thing to occur and not leave his magic up to fate, but it was infinitely less appealing spending the next seven years learning long-extinct Latin and Germanic phrases when he could be expanding his magical ability.

But Harry noticed that the other children needed a wand to do magic, unlike his ability to do Strange Things, and Harry realised that he was odd, even amongst the witches and wizards. The few things Harry had done without a wand was excused as accidental magic and it seemed easier for his professors to think so than to recognise wandless magic. So Harry would apologise politely at a furious McGonagall or a shocked Flitwick, and return to his cupboard to collect his wand – or wherever he forgot it last.

Harry never forgot to bring his wand to Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was a mark of his ability to be Not Seen when the other students didn't even comment on it.

Harry didn't meet Night-Quirrell again after the first night, the man now Day-Quirrell for the foreseeable future. Even when Harry passed him in a corridor, there was always a few people lurking and the man didn't seem to notice him. But when Harry would pass by, he felt the heat of eyes on his back. Harry would turn and look over his shoulder, shuddering as he realised that the man hadn't turned around. Something about his turban gave Harry the heebie-jeebies.

It was Hallowe'en day when Harry accidentally (and quite literally) dropped into the third corridor. One of his year-mates, a rather grumpy redhead Gryffindor with a penchant for saying ' _Slimy Slytherin!'_ in people's faces like it meant something, had shoved Malfoy while on the moving staircase on their way to Double Potions. Malfoy smacked into Goyle, and Goyle backed straight into Harry. Harry had no chance after the boy's enormous bulk body-slammed him.

A fracas broke out on the moving stairs and no one noticed that Harry had fallen off, most too concerned with holding on for dear life as the redhead and Malfoy starting duelling. Harry groaned miserably, touching the back of his head. A small smear of blood glittered on his fingertips and he frowned. The pain wasn't that bad, but perhaps he had gone into shock. Harry didn't consider it further as he looked around and realised that he was in the dreaded Third Floor.

Harry didn't particularly care for rumours or the nonsense Headmaster Dumbledore said (and that man said a _lot_ of nonsense), but there definitely was something off about the abandoned floor. It seemed irresponsible that it could be accessed, especially by a first year on accident.

Harry meandered deep into the floor, head beginning to ache terribly, and came across a locked door. Harry wished it would open and a large unbolting sound signalled its release. Harry was finding it easier and easier to wish things to happen, especially now that he trained his magic daily.

Harry pushed the door open with a slightly trembling hand and promptly gasped. An enormous, three headed dog turned six horrible, yellowed eyes upon him. Harry guessed that the dog was perhaps three stories high, a monstrosity of foaming lips, growling teeth, horrible claws.

"Good boy?" Harry whispered helplessly, hoping that the dog was friendly.

It wasn't.

The dog began to bark loudly then, snarling with massive canines. Harry felt his magic jump protectively and he thought _down boy!_

The dog immediately dropped. Harry stilled, looking at the dog in horror. Had he killed it?

"A very strange boy, indeed," a deep voice sounded behind him. Harry slowly turned his head and looked up at the glowing eyes of Quirrell, realising with a start that it was Night-Quirrell, even though it was not yet ten in the morning. "How is it that I'm constantly finding you with dead animals?" The man asked, a smirk shadowing his lips.

"I didn't kill it," Harry protested in false bravado, a slight tremor giving him away.

Quirrell turned back to look at the dog, expression pleased. "You really haven't gotten better at lying. It was a horrible mutt, anyway," he muttered.

A large huffing sounded behind Harry's back and he bristled as the wind of the dog's breath washed over him, the stench hair-curling. Harry dared to look behind himself and was surprised to see that the dog was snoring, asleep rather than dead. Harry released a massive sigh of relief.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked curiously, quickly adding a "Sir" when Quirrell gave him a foul look.

"The better question would be – what are _you_ doing here?" Quirrell answered shortly.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno," he answered distantly, watching the massive beast snore. "It that common?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at the shadow man.

Quirrell looked at him peculiarly then, eyes narrowing in thought.

"I haven't seen much of the wizarding world," Harry elaborated. "I'm not sure if three headed dogs are a thing or not."

"It's a Cerberus," Quirrell answered after a moment. "And no, it's not common."

"Interesting," Harry hummed. "Well, best be going then." Harry began to walk away from the door briskly and stiffened as a hand grabbed the scuff of his robes, stopping him dead.

"I don't think so," Quirrell crooned in his ear.

Harry looked at him sharply, a twist in his gut warning him of danger. "Yes, Professor?" Harry asked innocently, wishing that Boring Harry would lose this man's attentions. It didn't happen.

"Stop trying to confound me," Quirrell said, frowning. "It's annoying and won't work."

Harry blinked at him owlishly. "Confound?" He repeated, voice lilting in question at the end.

Quirrell began to laugh. It wasn't a nice sound. "You really don't know, do you? Such as strange, strange little child," he chuckled, the noise sending screams of warning down Harry's spine. Harry kept very still under the man's watchful gaze, feeling every bit like a mouse trapped by a cobra.

Then the moment passed and Quirrell let him go, hand gently smoothing the wrinkled creases in Harry's tired robes. "You should come with me," Quirrell stated suddenly. "I'm going down there."

Harry looked to where the long, pale finger pointed and noticed a small trapdoor under the large paw of the Cerberus.

"No, thank you," Harry responded firmly, wishing the man would listen for _once_.

"You do know that's very similar to the Imperius Curse, yes?" Quirrell asked curiously, abruptly, eyes glittering mischievously. "What you're doing right now. It's not strong, just a compulsion at this stage, but it perhaps would work on your peers. Terribly immoral, it is, and I'm concerned about how you're going to develop if you're already casting such black magic at the tender age of eleven." Contrary to his words, Quirrell looked secretly delighted.

Harry baulked. "Black magic?" He asked.

"Oh, stop with the naivety and repeating what I say," Quirrell scowled, sneering down at the boy and making Harry curl in on himself at the scathing look. "You know perfectly well what you're doing. It just doesn't seem wrong to you, seeing as you're the one benefiting. Luckily for both of us, I don't have the strongest moral compass either. I see the Sorting Hat was correct to place you in Slytherin, despite the whispers of your bretheren."

Harry's eyebrows drew together at the man's words. Though Quirrell tended to speak in riddles, half-truths and inside jokes in this form, Harry understood the man's gist.

"I'm controlling people," Harry stated at last, careful not to phrase the sentence as a question. "Even though I thought I was controlling myself." It was a difficult concept to swallow, but seemed logically sound after the first bite.

Quirrell looked at Harry out of the corner of his eye, burning irises aflame in the darkness. "You're also very good at stalling. Go on," Quirrell stated. Harry scowled, irritated that he'd been called out.

Harry stepped very uneasily past the demon dog, wishing Very, _Very_ Hard that it didn't wake up. The dog's three out of sync snores deepened. Harry pushed against the paw and it didn't budge. Harry looked at Quirrell for help, but the man crossed his arm amusedly and gestured at him to continue.

Harry wished that the dog's paw would move. This came in the form of the paw lightening suddenly, toppling Harry over as he pushed against the fur and it slammed out of the way.

"Graceful," Quirrell sighed, stepping over Harry's body dismissively. Harry felt like vomiting suddenly, his head spinning as it absorbed another bash on the stone floor. He lifted himself onto his knees and braced his hands against the cold stone floors, head throbbing. Harry wished desperately that his head would stop aching and it suddenly did, but Harry still felt lightheaded and ill. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly.

Quirrell paid him no mind, opening the hatch and peering down. He then turned hellfire eyes on Harry and smirked, jerking his head to the open hole. "Go on, then," Quirrell teased darkly, eyes glittering. Harry wondered how they glowed when there was so little light in the room.

Harry sighed, walking forward without word. He seemed to have been roped into this adventure, whether or not he wanted to be, and would rather get it over with without much more fighting. Besides, Quirrell's demeaning amusement over his feeble protests was just embarrassing.

Harry looked at the man as he stood before the portal, wondering what was going through that strange shadow head of his. From this close range, the turban seemed to float on his head, as if not actually attached to his skull and hovering with a small airgap over the man's skull. Harry frowned at the thought and jumped through the hole.

Harry landed on something… Wet. No, not wet – squishy. He inhaled deeply, the room too dark to see anything beyond his hand, smelling the scent of musk and potting soil and – something vegetabe-ly. Quirrell looked down through the open portal, the only source of light spilling into the room, and smirked. Harry felt a burst of panic explode in his chest as the man _winked_ and shut the trapdoor with a bang.

Harry lay on the leafy floor in shock, body numbing. Quirrell, a _professor_ , had abandoned him under a Cerberus, magical reserves already having taken a hit from forcing the dog to listen to him. Harry patted his robes and swore in despair as he realised that he'd forgotten his wand. While it was very limiting, the amount of magic needed to cast wand was minute compared to wishing Strange Things to happen.

Harry realised that panicking probably wouldn't do him any good and he sighed, sitting up. The vegetable flooring seemed to move with him, wrapping a curious tendril around his wrist. Harry looked down, despite not being able to see in the pitch black darkness, and wondered what it was. It didn't seem terribly malicious, but moving plants rarely weren't.

Harry considered the possibility of what it could be as it wrapped more firmly around his forearm, like a python drawn to heat.

Heat.

Harry blinked. _Devil's Snare_ , his mind supplied helpfully. The plant didn't particularly like light, but it did like heat. It would explain the sluggishness humidity of the dark room. Hermione had poured over a chapter of Devil's Snare, reading aloud in a combination of horror and fascination. Harry had leant towards horror. But this Devil's Snare was presumably huge and yet it didn't hurt him. Harry relaxed into the soft bed of vines, wondering if the Devil's Snare thought him boring too.

Harry knew that the Cerberus wouldn't likely remain asleep for much longer; Harry had experimented on his dormmates with the sleeping wish while sneaking into take a shower and it rarely lasted past than twenty minutes. Harry doubted it would last nearly as long, considering the sheer size of the dog.

Harry felt himself relax completely, his mind humming distractedly. He probably still had a concussion; the easiest answer to stopping the pain was to stop _feeling_ the pain. Harry knew that his wishes had a limit, often flowing like water to the simplest solution rather than the best, but right now it was extremely inconvenient.

Harry squawked suddenly as he sunk through the vines, passing a thick wall of leaves and ropy vines. He was lowered softly to the floor by a vine around his torso, light suddenly spilling into his eyes. Harry blinked wearily, the soft light too much for his sensitive pupils. Harry looked up through squinted eyelids, watching the twisting and squirming vines form a ceiling above. The Devil's Snare was _massive._ Harry shuddered and walked away quickly, deciding that any exit he took _definitely_ wouldn't be back the way he came.

Harry cocked his head as he heard a faint fluttering noise. He walked towards a door, alarmed by a sound that reminded him of squeaking bats – but, rather, metallic bats. He opened the door carefully and gaped at the sight of hundreds of little keys. Harry saw a broom and, though he had discovered he did have a fair amount of natural talent on the charmed wood, he was in no mood to play games. Harry strolled across the room, ignoring the fluttering wings, and wished Very Hard that the door would open.

It seemed his magic unravelled whatever charm was sealing it closed, for the door blew outwards in an earsplitting explosion of splintering wood. Harry winced, covering his face with his hands as the splinters sprayed his face. Harry sighed, stepping past the portal and wandering onto a giant chess board.

"Are you serious?" Harry asked the room angrily. "Does this just keep going?"

The chest pieces, easily three times his height, stood stock still. Harry could swear, though, that a knight looked at him for a moment, the movement in his peripheral vision. Harry whipped his head to look at the carved marble, disturbed when he saw nothing suspicious. Either his concussion was playing tricks on his mind or this was a haunted chessboard. Both seemed equally plausible and ominous.

"I don't like chess. Could I just, like, pick a side?" Harry asked the pieces impatiently, crossing his arms.

It was if he had spoken the magic words, for the pieces leapt into place, rearranging themselves on the board. A single piece was missing and Harry rolled his eyes as the chess pieces looked at him expectantly.

"I nominate the broken pawn to be me; it's closest to my height," Harry stated irritably, crossing his arms. There was _no way_ he was getting on that chess board.

It seemed like the chess pieces would fight, for a moment. But then they shuddered as Harry stomped his foot (admittedly a little childishly) and the broken pawn stumbled up, crossing the board.

"I chose Black. Go," Harry demanded, waving his hand imperiously. Harry wasn't sure where this newfound backbone was coming from, but he was so tired, so angry at Quirrell, and his head was beginning to _hurt_ again. This wasn't exactly his version of a good day and Harry snarled as the chess pieces failed to move. "I said _go!"_

The chess pieces leapt into action, moving faster than any game of chess he had ever seen. The chess pieces clearly knew the game better than most wizards, zipping through the actions as they smashed, flailed, and made an overall mess of the board.

Harry was relieved to note that Black was winning, seeing as he didn't know what would happen if White won. At last, the White King was checkmated – almost too quickly for Harry to catch on to what was happening. The Black Queen smirked then, taking no prisoners, and decapitated the White King with a vicious flourish of her sword. Harry shuddered, carefully sidestepping the chunks of marble on the board as the chess pieces became lifeless once more.

Harry walked into a horribly stinking room on the other side of the chessboard, eyes watering in pain as the stench prickled his eyes. A horrible beast, nearly as tall as the Cerberus but more humanoid shaped, leered over him.

"Fuck off!" Harry roared as the beast raised a club curiously. Harry felt a touch of embarrassment as he swore, unused to the word in on his tongue, but it seemed to work. The troll, for that was all Harry could imagine it was, stumbled back. "Move! Get out of the way!" Harry continued, approaching the troll. His magic reached up and nipped at the troll's heels, voice laced with compulsion as Quirrell called it, the creature moaning miserably as Harry continued to yell at him and approach with his arms flailing.

Once he had edged around the beast, Harry slipped through a door. He pressed his head against the cool wood, not wanting to turn around and see what lay behind him. Harry turned anyway, though, and groaned.

Harry read the riddle with nausea, realising that he had no way of answering this. Hermione, perhaps. Quirrell, definitely. But Harry was more an odd combination of brutal force and sneakiness, not this straightforward logic and upfront cleverness. Harry knew he often went about things the wrong way, not this way. He wondered how on earth he could turn back now, after how far he'd come.

"Giving up now? For shame," A voice purred into the room, the flames flickering at the presence of another magical being.

Harry turned on his heel quickly and looked at Quirrell in surprise. "Oh, there you are," Harry chirped. "Solve this for me?" Harry requested politely, raising the parchment up to the shadow man. While he very much wanted to throw a tantrum and curse the man to hell and high water, Harry knew the only way he was getting through this maze was with the man's help. Harry felt strangely compelled to keep going, almost taking a personal stake in seeing this over with.

The man made no attempt to take the scrap of paper, instead watching Harry. "No, you do it," Quirrell answered dismissively.

"I can't," Harry answered, shrugging as he pulled the scrap of parchment over and reading it once more. "I know when I've been beat," Harry stated, not upset and giving up with ease.

Quirrell snatched the paper from his hands, scowling bitterly. "Not so strange after all," he hissed. "Just _stupid_."

Harry nearly laughed at the man's bitter tone, not taking an ounce of offence. Harry settled for a secret smile; who was the stupid one when he duped the professor into finding the answer for him? Harry knew that he wouldn't be able to find the riddle's meaning, but Quirrell could and Harry would take advantage of _all_ of his resources.

"This one," Quirrell finally said. "And don't look so smug."

Harry wiped the smile off his face quickly as he looked down at the vialed potion shoved into his hands and then back up at the professor.

"Don't you think if I was trying to kill you that I'd have done it already?" Quirrell asked exasperatedly, looking to be running at the end of his rope.

"That sounds exactly like something someone would say if they were trying to kill somebody," Harry answered a little petulantly. He downed the vial anyway.

Nothing happened. That is, until Quirrell pushed him through the purple flames. Harry hissed in surprise, flinching as he stumbled through. Harry touched his clothes wondrously, blinking as he realised he was unharmed.

Quirrell walked through the flames with ease, also unhurt, and Harry wondered if the flames were dangerous at all. Perhaps he should have tried running through first.

It seemed that they had reached the end of the maze, for there were no more doors. A large mirror stood in the middle of the room, odd characters scrawled into its majestic, gold frame. Harry felt a strange bottoming in his stomach as he looked at the mirror, feeling like this was the most dangerous challenge of them all.

"Well, at least you do have enough self-preservation to stay back," Quirrell remarked snarkily, stalking up to the mirror. Quirrell paced in front of the mirror like a caged lion, snarling at what Harry presumed to be his reflection. Harry walked up to the mirror, curious as to what Quirrell saw in the mercurial glass. Harry felt himself pale instantly at the sight staring back at him.

It was as if the books he had read about his parents, the photos he had seen, had come to life. His mother, a beautiful vision of red hair and charming dimples stared back. A man that looked remarkably like himself, when he was Regular Harry, glowed happily as he looked down, not noticing Harry. They sat on the floor of a nursery, Harry the age of a toddler and leaning over their shoulder in excitement. The happy trio played with a little child who lay on its back on the nursery floor, perhaps only a few months old, laughing noiselessly as the baby gurgled and waved its chubby arms.

A family.

Harry felt ice explode in his stomach. He couldn't watch it anymore.

Harry turned away quickly, blinking rapidly to scare away the tears filling his eyes.

"What do you see, Harry?" Quirrell murmured, suddenly by his side. Harry looked up at him in surprise, having forgotten that the shadow man was there too.

"Something I can't have," Harry answered honestly, looking up at the man. "Is that what it does?"

Quirrell looked at him thoughtfully. "Not necessarily, but you are close," the man stated, turning back to the mirror. The man didn't have a hint of empathy in his tone. Harry was glad.

"Who are you?" Harry asked suddenly, feeling that it was time.

Quirrell turned back to him, hooded eyes alight in amusement. "Voldemort," he answered, lips curling into smirk. The man looked very pleased to be announcing his dark secret.

"I would say it's nice to meet you, but it's really not, and I _have_ met you before," Harry answered simply, turning back to the mirror and he was suddenly able to handle the scene in the reflection a little better.

"What?" Quirrell – Voldemort – snarled. "I've been a spectre, a ghost of a man for nearly a _decade_ , and all you say is _that?_ " He roared.

Harry looked up at the man, unintimidated. "That is quite an achievement," Harry coaxed, curious. "How did you do it?"

Voldemort reared back, eyes flickering like a caged animal. He began to unravel the turban and Harry felt his lips twist in disgust.

"Oh, no, please don't," Harry asked, wrinkling his nose.

Voldemort glared at him. "You're an impertinent little shit, you know that?" He scowled, not slowing down.

Harry hummed uncommittedly, hairs rising on his arms as the turban unravelled further. "Seriously, don't," Harry demanded suddenly, the air in the room shifting under his command.

Voldemort shaped Quirrell's face into a delighted, dark smile. The final piece of fabric fell and Harry stepped back, alarmed, as the man turned.

A horrible, snake-like, slitted face leered back at him.

"Oh, gross," Harry gagged before he leant over and vomited.

Had he seen Voldemort's expression, Harry might have laughed. But he was too busy trying to not lose the rest of his stomach through his mouth.

"Sorry, sorry," Harry wheezed as he held his chest, still doubled over. "Concussion and all that. And your magic tastes _really_ bad."

"Tastes?" Voldemort – the real Voldemort – questioned.

"Like too much garlic, skunk and slime," Harry agreed, shuddering. He slowly stood back up, arms still wrapped around his abdomen.

Voldemort looked at him irritably then. "This is _not_ how this was supposed to happen," the face told him. "Then again, nothing seems to go right around you. You're an omen of chaos."

Harry didn't know what that meant, but he rolled his eyes anyway because it sounded too serious and poetic to really mean anything substantial. Harry turned to the mirror to look away from that horrible, gooey face and wished he could find the what Voldemort wanted, mostly because he wanted to have what Voldemort couldn't. He didn't wish Very Hard, so he was surprised to feel the weight of a stone drop in his trouser pocket.

Harry reached his hand down into his pocket and pulled a bizarre, glowing rock. It looked like a giant crystal and yet had none of its weight; the large object warmed his hand.

"How did you –" Voldemort began in a roar, but was cut off abruptly as Harry held the stone out to the two-faced monster.

"Here," Harry stated.

Voldemort looked at him, eyes narrowing as he considered the angles Harry might be playing.

"You seem pretty upset that I have the rock, so you can hold it too," Harry said dryly.

"That's the Philosopher's Stone," Voldemort seethed, seemingly irritated that Harry wasn't fighting to keep it. Voldemort seemed like a very dramatic person; perhaps he didn't want the stone without blowing Harry up first.

"Then maybe we should give it back to him," Harry answered, frowning as he lowered his hand. Voldemort clearly hadn't expected Harry to say that and he looked completely affronted, as if he couldn't tell if Harry was joking or not. Harry wasn't.

"Fine!" The man snarled, Quirrell's body arching backwards awkwardly at Voldemort lunged at Harry. Harry squawked in horror and let go of the stone, dropping it into the twisting hand before it could touch him.

Voldemort smirked then, leaning over Harry's sick and pressing his slit nose close to the boy's small face.

"You're a mess, Harry Potter," the creature drawled, for it wasn't a man.

"Pot calling the kettle black," Harry said suddenly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could filter his mind.

Voldemort's head cocked, an unnatural angle that was surely cracking Quirrell's spinal column, and smirked devilishly as he pulled back. The demon man looked at the stone, victory shining in his hellfire eyes. Then Voldemort retreated, Quirrell's hands slowly wrapping his head once more in the smelly turban. Quirrell turned around then, Voldemort still controlling the man's body with ease and Harry was relieved to be confronted with a humanoid face.

"Come now, Harry," Voldemort tutted as he began to walk back to the flames. "You're awfully late for class. Thirty points from Slytherin."

Harry felt like he should argue, but the thought of protesting thirty lost house points seemed like nit-picking when faced with a mass murderer.

Harry trotted behind Quirrell as he continued forward, frowning at the bloody carcass of the troll as they strolled through the horrible smelling room. They finally stood underneath the Devil's Snare and Voldemort raised a wand, a bright, burning light exploding from the tip of his wand. The Snare could almost be heard squealing in pain as it retreated rapidly, curling away from the beam of light. Voldemort grabbed Harry's forearm, wrapped in heavy winter robes, and rose weightlessly into the air.

"You can fly?" Harry asked suddenly, looking at the floor fall away and blinking in surprise. Voldemort didn't answer. "That's pretty cool, actually," Harry continued, words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Will you teach me how?"

Voldemort didn't look back at him, but the hand on his arm tightened painfully, Harry's mouth closing with an audible _click_.

They floated up through the trapdoor harmlessly, past the sleeping dog as a harp played loudly by itself, and Voldemort pulled Harry to the entrance door of the Third Floor Corridor.

"Why did you give me the stone?" Voldemort asked suddenly, turning heathen eyes on Harry.

"I wanted to know what you'd do," Harry answered, studying the man's reaction.

"Do you live your life based purely on curiosity?" Voldemort pressed, his fingers still digging painfully into Harry's arm, the blunt nails indenting his skin even through the layers of wool.

"Of course. Don't you?" Harry replied, genuinely curious. "It seems like a painfully dull life to not experiment a little."

"Indeed," Voldemort stated, looking bored by his answer. Harry watched the man let go of his arm, turning and stepping onto a swinging staircase without looking first, the stairwell empty of all students as it led the Dark Lord away from Harry and the Third Floor landing.

"Are you leaving?" Harry asked a little rhetorically as the stairway took the puppet man away.

"Yes," Voldemort answered bluntly, leaning Quirrell's hip against the stairway banister. "Haven't you heard? The Defense post is cursed." Voldemort smiled then, all sharp teeth and white lips, and Harry sighed as he felt another inside joke wash over his head.

"'Kay," Harry called out. "Let me know how it goes with the rock."

Voldemort had swung too far away for Harry to study his expression, but the man's cackle of laughter rang into the stairwell and chilled Harry's bones.

* * *

 **End Act I**

* * *

 _A/N: This chapter is a little longer than normal, but I couldn't find an appropriate place to break it up. Let me know what you think :)  
_


	6. Chapter 6: Writ in Water

**Chapter 6: Writ in Water**

The school year after Voldemort's departure continued on quite boringly. Harry had been called by memo into the Headmaster's Office after being treated for his head wounds and was told Very Seriously that he had done a Bad Thing by letting Voldemort get away.

Harry had asked if it was normal to expect underage children to stop immortal Dark Lords. He hadn't meant it petulantly nor rudely, but rather curiously. Still, Dumbledore appeared to take offence.

Even after the rather poor meeting, Dumbledore gave him an invisibility cloak for Christmas. It was Harry's only (and first) gift and he recognised the writing from Dumbledore's first missive. Harry wasn't sure if it was a joke or not, seeing as he was already Not Seen enough as it was, but Harry liked the gift anyway. He used it for everything, including going to meals, but didn't take it to class lest it was confiscated. Harry liked sitting next to his peers at the Slytherin table and making food disappear. It was his only entertain after Voldemort left, after all.

A new Defence teacher was nominated after Quirrell was considered long and gone; he was a bumbling, portly sort of fellow that went missing too at the end of the school year. Harry discovered that there _was_ a curse on the Defence position and wondered why that amused Voldemort so much. Perhaps it was because he was immortal.

At the end of the year, Harry asked Dumbledore Very Politely if he could stay in the castle. He even offered to pay boarding fees _and_ clean, as he was very good at dusting and moping and all sorts of domestic chores.

He was told No. The word rang in his head for the entire day.

Returning to the Dursleys after being at Hogwarts put a bad taste in his mouth. Especially since he hadn't told them he was leaving. Sure, they probably wouldn't have noticed at first, but as the dust piled and the plates in the kitchen sink weren't washed, even the Dursleys would eventually have figured out that Harry was gone. Not that they remembered he was there most of the time, but still.

As expected, Aunt Petunia was furious to see him and boxed him around the ears. Uncle Vernon did the same. Harry spent the week hiding in the cupboard under the stairs until Aunt Petunia realised that his school might find out and he was quickly moved up to the spare bedroom. Harry didn't like the large space, but kept it tidy and clean anyway. Harry was always ready to leave just in case, bag packed and clothes washed. No one came to take him back to Hogwarts.

Instead, an elf actually came and tried to keep Harry away. That really pissed Harry off. Harry wished Very Hard that the elf forgot Harry's existence (and why he was sure that Harry wasn't allowed to return) and the elf left him alone after that.

The following year, Harry took advantage of his cloak even more. He heard whispers in the walls, students were petrified, and a girl with a diary seemed to be behind it all. Hermione had discovered it was a basilisk fairly early on, but she was petrified before she could tell anyone besides Harry. Harry didn't feel it necessary to ruin the adventure just yet and hung out in the corridors under his cloak, wondering what would happen if he was petrified under the cloak. How long would it take for someone to find him? Days, months, years? Harry figured he'd wait and see.

At one point, the small red headed girl walked into a secret lair and a tall, handsome boy walked out. Harry watched from under his cloak while hiding in the second-floor girl's bathroom, slowly eating an orange and wondering what that was all about. After that, it all seemed to stop.

Harry briefly considered continuing the rein of the basilisk, especially seeing as he could understand the snake's strange language, but it seemed like it would take a lot of effort and Harry didn't want anyone to die. It didn't help either that Harry had loads of school work. And he spent a _lot_ of his time avoiding the newest Defence teacher, who was all shiny and grinny and overall unbearable. Thankfully, he too met a gruesome end while trying to Obliviate Ronald Weasley. It said a lot when even a Dark Lord found Obliviating children distasteful but the new popular, famous Defence professor did it for a living.

Before he knew it, the school year had ended and it was his third. This turned out to be spectacularly exciting. Harry met a man who was a dog _and_ a dog who was a man, but he didn't tell either of them that he knew. Harry merely pulled the stalking dog into the school with him by wishing Very Hard and made it sleep at the foot of his bed.

Oh, yes – Harry was caught in the cupboard very early in the third year and was told that he could either sleep in the dorms or sleep at the Dursleys (implication being that he would be expelled, he guessed, as it seemed awfully inconvenient to floo travel to school each day). Harry chose to sleep in the dorms. But apparently the dog was a Grim and this happened to keep most of his dormmates away. In fact, they took to sleeping in the Common Rooms. All around, it worked out pretty well for Harry.

Sure, a few teachers tried to tell him that dogs weren't allowed. The man who was a dog _really_ didn't like the dog who was a man and even tried to take him away. But he pointed out Very Firmly that Ronald Weasley had a rat, Draco Malfoy had an eagle, Hermione had a kneazle – and that was just in his year. Either all the contraband pets had to go or none had to go. That seemed to shut the professors up pretty quickly. Harry thought it had much to do with Draco Malfoy's really mean dad on the Board of Directors.

It turned out that Albert, which was what Harry named the dog despite its whines and eyerolls, took a particular disliking to Ron Weasley's rat and snapped its neck. After that, the rat turned into a man with a rather horrible compound fracture (his spine was largely outside of his body) and Albert turned into a man. There was a fair bit of press, a court trial regarding custody, and much talk about a missing pinky.

Harry ignored most of it and was only affected when the Dementors were made to leave. That was nice.

Albert, who was really named Sirius, told Harry he could live with him. Harry thought that was pretty nice, too. Sirius (who told Harry to stop calling him Albert or he'd turn Harry's hair pink) turned out to be a really Cool Guy. He hung out, got drunk, started bar fights, and overall was totally insane. Harry liked that about Sirius. Harry liked his new house, too. He laughed as Sirius painted a moustache and beard on his mother's portrait as she slept and the woman was so horrified that she ran out of her frame every time someone walked by.

The man who was really a dog came to live with them (apparently he'd forgiven Sirius for whatever the dog-man did) during the summer holiday. Harry put his foot down when Dumbledore wanted a whole bunch of people to live with them too. Harry told him No.

Harry didn't actually care, but he couldn't give up the opportunity to rub that one in the old man's face. Harry didn't dislike Dumbledore either. But he found out that Dumbledore was the reason he was living with the Dursleys and a piece of the puzzle as to why Sirius never received a trial. Harry point blank refused, too, when the old man tried to appeal to his humanity by letting Harry know that the Dursleys would most likely be murdered without his presence feeding the "Blood Wards".

Harry had then laughed and laughed and _laughed_. Dumbledore didn't like that.

It was fourth year when Voldemort started to stir once more. Harry was initially surprised that it took so long, but he could see why. The horrible, two-faced snake-man appeared to have absorbed both Quirrell's body and the dark featured, handsome boy who ate Ginny Weasley. He looked less like a gross ghoul and was actually quite attractive. He went by a new name now, too. Tom Riddle. Harry knew it wasn't long until Voldemort's name was stirring across Britain, but he didn't tell anyone what he knew. It seemed like giving up the game too soon. Besides, Harry had the feeling that Dumbledore knew much more than he was letting on and figured the old man would eventually sort it out.

* * *

Harry sat on the train to Hogwarts, minding his own business as the wheels clattered and the steam engine whistled. Hermione had found him early on and sat with him; the girl apparently never made friends in her own house. The nice thing about Hermione, however, was that he could ignore her as much as he wanted and she never got offended as long as he helped her with wandless magic. Hermione reminded him of a wart that he tried to burn off at first and it kept regrowing to the point that he decided it was time to live with it.

Hermione actually wasn't anything like a wart, to be honest. Harry found himself really liking her, but he was used to things of his being taken away and broken and he didn't particularly feel like getting attached. But apparently his feelings didn't care what his brain thought and he liked her anyway.

Harry found out very early on that he couldn't like a girl like _that._ Perhaps he should have noticed in first year, when he mooned over Damon despite keeping his distance. Or second year, when that boy walked through the hole in the ground and Harry couldn't stop thinking about him. Harry even felt a little odd around Sirius at first, but finding out the man was his godfather and now technically his adopted father immediately wiped _that_ slate clean.

It wasn't anything rude, but Harry felt a flutter in his stomach and he'd become even more withdrawn – which was surprisingly possible even though he basically already lived as a shadow. He just seemed to have a thing for tall, dark featured and handsome. Harry didn't like this discovery _at all_.

Harry sat next to Daphne at the Welcoming Feast, the young girl becoming remarkably like her second cousin Mollie as time went by, and frowned at the announcement of a TriWizard Tournament. It seemed that Hogwarts was going to have yet another year of chaos.

Harry didn't care for the well-polished Beauxbaton girls and boys nor the hardened Durmstrang bunch. They showed off a bit, twirling and casting fire and overall being posh. Harry sighed. It was going to be a very long year indeed.

* * *

"You don't talk a lot, do you?" A voice interrupted Harry's studying. Harry looked over the library table and blinked owlishly at the young man.

Viktor Krum, for some reason or another, had fallen hard for Hermione Granger in the space of two days. Harry didn't mind, as the boy didn't talk other than to whisper sweet nothings in Hermione's ear (to the girl's blushing consternation). It just meant that the boy was now in the library with them, pretending to read while giving Hermione heated looks.

"I could say the same for you," Harry answered, not unkindly.

"You also never answer a question. You're very good at de-de-" At this, the Bulgarian turned to Hermione helplessly.

"Deflecting," Hermione answered distractedly, not looking up from her reading.

"Yes, deflecting," Krum stated, smiling at the brunette.

Harry tilted his head as he looked at the boy, wondering what was bringing this on. "Sure," Harry agreed, returning to his reading.

"You are not what I thought of when I heard Harry Potter is at Hogwarts," the boy continued.

Harry sighed and put down his book, resigned to the fact that the Seeker had decided to start a conversation.

"And?" Harry asked, raising a brow curiously.

"And I think it is good," Krum stated. "You are very clever and you think before you act."

Hermione huffed loudly, slamming her book shut. "No, he doesn't think _at all_ ," the girl barked. "You think that's introspection? No, that's him floating along like a jellyfish. He does what he wants, when he wants, consequences be damned."

Krum looked at her in surprise.

"Introspection means to look inward," Harry added. Krum turned to him with his eyebrows drawn together.

"I know what this means," Krum responded, frowning.

"Oh," Harry answered, unperturbed. "Do you know what a jellyfish is?"

Krum looked embarrassed. "No," he stated a little bitterly.

Harry raised his wand and waved it carelessly. A vaporous jellyfish poured out of the tip and swam away, it's large mushroom top pluming as it rose to the ceiling.

"Ah, _meduza_ ," Krum agreed, watching the creature slowly evaporate. "Yes. Jellyfish."

Harry smiled. "Hermione means to say that I don't worry a lot," Harry said lightly. "I'm actually just slowly sucking any calmness out of her for my own needs. That's why she's so high strung."

Hermione spluttered as Krum looked at her fondly. "'Mione is very passionate, yes," he agreed warmly. Hermione turned bright red at the nickname and though the Bulgarian was yet to be able to say her name, Harry thought the girl liked the nickname coming from the Seeker's lips.

"Though some might feel a little odd at your age difference," Harry continued calmly. "It does seem a little inappropriate for a seventeen-year-old to be courting a fourth year. I won't go throwing around the 'p' word, but I feel like I have to address the elephant in the room. Or Bulgarian."

Hermione turned to Harry with such horror and rage that he had to suppress a wince. Harry kept staring at Krum coolly, head tilting as he watched the boy's reaction.

"I will not take advantage of 'Mione," Krum responded slowly and Harry could tell that the boy was a little irritated. "I am not a cad."

"That's a good word, cad," Harry answered smoothly, smiling slightly now. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you," he added lightly, as if discussing his favourite flavour of tea.

Krum looked at him in surprise. "I will not," the Seeker assured deeply.

" _Harry!_ " Hermione hissed. Harry finally broke his staring contest with Krum and turned to Hermione, smiling innocently. "That – you – ooh!" The girl harrumphed, looking harried.

Hermione quickly jumped to her feet and scurried out of the room, forgetting her bookbag in the process. Hermione had never done that before. Forgetting one's books was tantamount to child abandonment in Hermione's eyes. Harry laughed delightedly, never having seen the girl so wound up.

"Take her books to her," Harry suggested, turning to Krum with a raised eyebrow. "She'll swoon."

Krum sighed, standing and stuffing the tomes into the worn bag. He shouldered it and made to move out of the library, but stopped just at the end of the desk.

"I didn't get to ask you what I wanted to," Krum said slowly, thinking over his words. "You are very good at deflection." He then walked out of the library quickly, following Hermione's trail before he lost her.

Harry smiled a little blandly. Unfortunately, hanging out with other wallflowers meant that sometimes they looked at him too.

* * *

"Harry Potter!" Dumbledore boomed into the Great Hall.

Harry froze, a piece of blanched broccoli halfway to his mouth. His eyes flickered to the white-bearded wizard.

" _Harry Potter!"_ The man repeated, a little more furiously.

Daphne turned to look at him and Harry popped the broccoli piece into his mouth. _Interesting_ , Harry thought as he slowly chewed.

"Go!" Daphne hissed, looking at him irritably and pushing his shoulder with a firm hand.

Harry sighed, a noise of long-suffering irritation, and stood. The hall exploded into whispers and Harry felt an uncomfortable tingle run up his spine at being watched by so many people. He hadn't been this noticed since his Sorting, to be honest.

Once in the back room, the other Champions quickly wrapped around him. Harry felt himself grow immensely irritated, unable to slink into the shadows when the trio of seventh years and their associated professors squabbled and fought over him.

"Did you do this, Harry?" Dumbledore finally asked at last, his voice cutting unnaturally through the grumbles of the other professors.

"No, sir," Harry answered honestly, picking at loose strings on his sleeves. He really needed new robes.

"Liar," hissed a sickly-looking man standing close to Krum.

"Now, now," a deep, velvety voice crooned through the room. "Let's hear the lad out."

Dumbledore bristled and turned around, blue eyes flashing dangerously. "Tom," the wizened wizard stated.

Harry peered around the Headmaster curiously. He wasn't disappointed.

Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, stood in the entrance way next to what Harry assumed was the Minister of Magic. Even though he'd only been around for a few months, it appeared the man had already made friends in high places. Voldemort was tall, lithe and impeccably dressed, dark hair gently coiffed in the current fashion of politicians. Voldemort appeared to be in a strange age bracket in which he could have passed off as a mature looking thirty-year-old or youthfully reaching his fifties (wizarding age was hard for Harry to tell). Voldemort was the best combination of Quirrell and the young man in the second-floor girl's bathroom and Harry felt a little dazed as the man turned to him and smirked.

A Charming Charm sown into his clothes, Harry realised. To butter people up. Harry nearly laughed; it looked like the old man could still learn new tricks.

"I agree," Cedric Diggory added. "We should hear Harry out first." Harry felt himself blush lightly at the boy's quick defence, dropping his chin and looking at the tips of his shoes in sudden interest.

In the corner of his eye, Harry watched Tom turned his horrible, beastly omnipotent eyes on Diggory and the man smiled, but it wasn't very nice.

Diggory smiled back obliviously, thinking he had support. Harry felt a strange realisation roll in his gut; Diggory was going to die this year.

"He is not much, is he?" A girlish voice asked, her thick French accent nearly swallowing the words whole.

Harry turned to a stunning blonde, the girl leagues prettier than even the long-graduated Mollie. He watched her as she jutted her chin out and raised her eyebrows at Dumbledore, as if the man should do something.

"No," Krum contradicted. "He is definitely something."

Harry shifted uneasily, not comfortable with how many people were paying attention to him. It seemed that the severity of the situation had easily overcome even his childhood gift of being Not Seen. Harry didn't like it at all.

* * *

"Who would do this to you?" Hermione whispered, wringing her wrists over the Potion's table. "You don't have many enemies. In fact, I'm not sure _anyone_ besides me knows you exist."

Harry smiled lopsidedly at her. "I'm pretty sure I know," Harry answered, slowly pushing powdered mealworms into his potion.

" _Who?_ " Hermione hissed.

"You honestly wouldn't believe me if I told you," Harry laughed quietly. "I'm starting to think he gets off on watching me struggle through trials and mazes like a lab rat."

Hermione looked affronted, but didn't push him further. Harry realised she probably thought he meant Dumbledore.

If only.

* * *

If Harry thought it was bad being noticed by the occupants of the Champion's room, then it was nothing compared to hellfire that ripped through the Hogwarts Rumour Mill. It was _total_ _chaos_.

Harry resorted to walking around under his cloak, sneaking past throngs of students as they gossiped loudly about him. There seemed to be a general notion that the small, barely recognisable boy from Slytherin was definitely being pranked. After all, most people knew his name but couldn't pick him out of a line-up and he was generally assumed to be sneaky, but not very clever.

Most people thought it was Malfoy colluding with some Seventh Years; after all, everyone knew that there was no love lost between the pair. To be fair, though, that was also mostly rumours as well as Harry and Malfoy had yet to butt heads since their confrontation in the potions room in First Year.

After what felt like a decade, the First Task finally came up. Hagrid, who never really understood Harry but smiled at him all the same, led the small boy through the forest. They both looked at the fire-breathing dragons in silence and Harry knew what he had to do.

Fighting a Norwegian Ridgeback seemed like a lot of effort and Harry didn't want to spend time telling it what to do or trying to sneak around it. Instead, he did what he knew best and wished Very Hard that it would go to sleep. The monster fought a little harder than the Cerberus did, but eventually it released a miserable moan of smoke and collapsed.

No one clapped nor did they understand. Harry didn't expect them to.

After that, Harry's position in the Tournament was no longer contested, but people did start to murmur that he _must_ have put his name in the Goblet.

"That was very lazy of you," Voldemort drawled as he leant against Harry's library study desk. Hermione and Krum were off doing god-knows-what (though Harry could take three guesses) and he spent the afternoon catching up on his schoolwork. Harry looked up from his studies.

"Oh?" He asked, eyebrows drawing together and a little annoyed that he couldn't get a spot of studying done anymore without somebody interrupting him.

"Yes," Voldemort confirmed, studying his perfectly manicured nails as if he wasn't an immortal Dark Lord pretending to play politician.

"How so?" Harry pressed, wondering what the man was getting at.

"That's exactly how you took down the mutt," Voldemort sighed, pulling back a wooden chair and sitting down. Harry had a flash of recollection to his first introduction to Voldemort when the monster wore Quirrell's skin and sprawled out in the professor's chair by the fire.

"Oh," Harry stated. "Yeah, sure." He returned to his book.

Voldemort sat there while Harry slowly was reabsorbed into his book. Five minutes later, Harry looked up, wondering why the man was so quiet, and jumped when he realised the man was gone. Harry hadn't seen him leave and would have if he stood; the man had evaporated.

Voldemort didn't come bother him again for a while, either as himself or Advisor Riddle, and for that Harry was equally disappointed and relieved.

* * *

During the Lake challenge, Harry was sent to retrieve Sirius. Hermione was there too, but Harry realised that she was probably for Krum. Harry inhaled gillyweed, fought grindylows (finally realising what Voldemort meant when he said frenzy) and returned within a neat fourty-five minutes. He was third last (the French girl captured by the vicious lake creatures) but splutteringly mad that Sirius had been kidnapped. Harry walked past the other Champions, the guests, everyone – and returned to the cupboard of his first two years.

Harry sat in there angrily for a while, mad even though he knew that the challenge wasn't going to kill his godfather. But Harry was a little too familiar with his loved ones being shredded, so he allowed himself the irrational irritation and kept away from the other students for the remainder of the day.

* * *

Christmas went by quickly. Harry was told that he had to attend the Yule Ball and was expected to bring a date to the opening dance.

Harry didn't bother showing.

* * *

At last, the final and Third Task ended with a _swoosh!_ as Harry and Diggory were portkeyed away from the Hogwarts Quidditch field. Diggory fell dead (Harry felt like saying " _Called it!"_ but that seemed a little flippant in the light of a student's murder) and Harry was sent back with Voldemort's whisper ringing in his ear, "It's time, Harry."

Harry appeared in front of the stands, a cooling body landing unceremoniously beside him. Harry thought for a moment, wondering what Voldemort wanted from him.

"Voldemort's back," Harry stated abruptly just before the screams started. "And that man's polyjuiced!" He cried out dramatically, pointing at their newest Defence teacher who reeked of the shapeshifting potion. Voldemort probably didn't want Harry outing his spy too, but why not? If the monster was going to murder school children willy nilly, Harry wasn't going to play by his rules. Harry wasn't his messenger boy and Voldemort seemed to be under the impression Harry was on his 'side'.

Harry wasn't on _anyone's_ side.

Mad-Eye Moody was tackled as Diggory's dad wailed over his son's body (the desperate sound of despair curling the hairs on Harry's neck). Harry decided he had enough of Hogwarts for the year and went home.

A couple of weeks later, Harry wondered if he won.

* * *

 _A/N: In regards to Viktor & Fleur, I'm terrible at writing accents and I get annoyed reading phonetic spelling so I'm leaving that up to you to imagine._


	7. Chapter 7: Das Kapital

**Chapter 7: Das Kapital**

Harry sat in a pink, flowery office staring into the determined, watery eyes of Professor Umbridge. The woman took PERSONAL OFFENCE to Harry's declaration of Voldemort's return (capital letters not doing it justice in Harry's mind). Harry smiled at her pleasantly and the woman smiled back, though a small twitch developed in the far corner of her eyebrow. Harry smiled wider.

"Mister Potter," the woman simpered in her high pitch, whiny voice. "You have been _very_ bad."

Harry wondered if the woman had a punishment fetish.

"You must retract what you said about _his_ return," the woman continued. Harry cocked his head, looking at her from a different angle. It didn't help; she looked unmistakably like a toad.

"Must I?" Harry asked curiously. "Or should I?"

The woman's eyes gleamed. "You must."

"Or?" Harry asked slowly, drawing out the word, wondering how far the woman would go.

The woman smiled in response.

* * *

Dumbledore tried to make Harry take Occulmency lessons with Professor Snape.

Harry informed Dumbledore apologetically that while he would _love_ to attend and experience the bitter man rip a metaphorical hole through his psyche on a weekly basis, he had nightly detentions with Professor Umbridge until the end of time.

One sociopath at a time, please.

* * *

Harry sat in the Punishment Room (Professor Umbridge called it detention, but Harry wasn't convinced) and carved into his own flesh. Well, the Blood Quill did.

 _I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies._

If it didn't hurt so badly, Harry would have been bored out of his mind. Actually, Harry _was_ bored out of his mind, which made it all the worse because the only thing he could do was mull over the pain. The quill seemed to promote blood flow, liquifying the red substance to thin ink. The quill also hurt a lot more than he imagined it felt to have a knife slowly carved into one's flesh (if that were possible) and he suspected poison; it would certainly explain why the wound wouldn't heal.

Harry originally thought he would despise Umbridge for this alone, but surprisingly he didn't. Perhaps his experience with the Dursleys and Voldemort had numbed him to the extreme spectrum of abusive behaviour.

What did make Harry hate Umbridge was the woman's foul attacks on Hermione. Halfway through the year, the girl was sent home with a bashed nose, expelled for fighting. Everyone knew that it was Umbridge's hand, however, that broke the cartilage. Still, Hermione didn't look like she'd be returning anytime soon.

Harry wrote over and over, watching the quill dig through his bones, veins, flesh, eventually breaking through the other side. Harry didn't stop writing, watching the sharp, metal tip of the quill scratch into the parchment, inkless, and felt the wooden desk under his left hand splinter.

* * *

 _Sirius was in the Ministry, Voldemort holding his jaw as the man trembled from the agony of a Cruciatus Curse. Voldemort turned and locked eyes with Harry in silent challenge._

Harry awoke with a gasp, inhaling sharply. His head ached viciously and he reached a swollen, trembling hand to his burning forehead. Harry felt something warm, slippery. He smelled copper and tang – this was new.

Harry walked to the shower, not prepared to run to his godfather's defence drenched in sweat. This certainly wasn't the first nightmare Harry had that came true. There was a few, the most memorable being one with a redheaded man being bitten by a massive snake. Harry found out later the man was Arthur Weasley and while he didn't particularly care for the Weasley bunch, it still left an odd emptiness on his chest when the children returned to Hogwarts after the funeral, glassy eyed.

As Harry dried off, he wondered if this was why Dumbledore wanted Harry to learn Occulmency. It would make sense. By why want to severe the connection between himself and Voldemort if he could get an upper hand on the man?

Unless, of course, Voldemort knew too and was playing Harry to his advantage.

That thought had Harry stopping stock still. Harry then quickly turned to his little trunk and overturned it on the bed, searching for the ornate silver hand mirror that Sirius gave Harry for his birthday. Harry finally found it and scurried to the Common Rooms so he could speak without waking his peers.

"Sirius!" Harry hissed into the mirror. "Sirius! Albert! _Hey!_ " Harry poked and prodded until a very disgruntled man roared and lurched up. Harry noticed that the mirror was on Sirius' dressing table and it faced the bed. A very pale body laying next to him jumped as he did so and Harry sighed as he realised the man had taken _another_ girl from the bar home to their Fidelius'd house. The girl squeaked in terror.

" _Sirius Orion Arc-_ " Harry began, knowing the man would lose the plot.

"Harry James Potter!" Sirius roared, stumbling off the bed (totally naked) and tripped on the rug. He was still clearly drunk as a skunk.

"What gift did Dumbledore give me in first year?" Harry asked politely, as if he wasn't interrupting his godfather's sleep at three in the morning.

"Are you checking to see if it's me or did you genuinely forget?" Sirius groaned, on his knees before the dressing table and holding his head in his hands.

"To see if it's you," Harry answered, not offended.

Sirius then turned into a giant dog, the grim panting as it leaned back on his haunches and placed two paws on the dresser. It barked at him playfully and then whined, clearly already suffering the beginning stages of a hangover.

"You two are _insane!_ " The woman squealed, jumping out of the bed and grabbing her clothes. She ran out of the room (as naked as Sirius) and the man chuckled. It was strange to hear laughter coming from a grim.

"Well, that was easy," he said as he transformed back into a person. "I should ask you to call every Sunday and Wednesday."

"Sunday and Wednesday?" Harry asked curiously.

Sirius grinned wolfishly. "Karaoke Night and Girls' Night," he stated, smirking.

Harry's eyebrows drew together. "Uck," he replied. "No thanks. Okay, good talk. Sleep well." With that, Harry placed the mirror down and thought.

* * *

Harry still went to the Ministry because… Well, it seemed a bit rude not to after all the trouble Voldemort went through.

Harry didn't really know how to get there at first, or even where the wizards kept their Ministry. He supposed he should remember, seeing as he went to a couple trials with Sirius in Third Year.

Harry eventually made his way on a broomstick, wishing Very Hard that he was going the right way. Sirius had gotten him a Firebolt for Christmas and though Harry didn't play Quidditch (which nearly gave Sirius an aneurism when he found out), Harry loved the feeling of flying. His travel stopped feeling like a mission and more like going on holiday and Harry tried out a few arching flips as he flew, enjoying the freedom afforded by the magical artefact.

Harry landed outside of a phone booth and this jogged his memory. He slowly went down into the depths of the Ministry, following the smell of black magic, and ended up in a room with a lot of doors. Harry rolled his eyes, wondering if this was Voldemort's version of locking him in the Third Floor again.

Harry opened a couple (scowling as they spun) and finally got the right one. He walked into a large room filled with shelves and shelves of glowing balls and wondered what Voldemort had in store for him.

"Ah, you've come alone. Foolish little boy," a deep tenor rang in his ear. Harry turned around and came face to face (or rather mask) with a Death Eater.

"Yeah, hi," Harry replied, not the least bit perturbed. "I'm looking for Voldemort. Seen him around?"

The man reared back and a scream of rage echoed through the halls.

"How _dare_ you say our lord's name!" A woman screeched, insanity ringing out loud and clear.

"Oh, sorry," Harry answered, raising his hands soothingly. "I'm here to see Tom?" He asked, wondering if that was better.

Various Death Eaters, who seemed to be coming out of the woodwork, all froze. Harry wondered if he wasn't supposed to know that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort too. It was getting exhausting trying to remember what he was and wasn't supposed to know.

"Um, Dark Lord, I mean?" Harry corrected himself unsurely, face twisting into a scowl. "Look, I got his message and I'm here."

The Death Eater closest to him tilted his head curiously as he looked at the boy. "Aren't you looking for your precious godfather?" The man jeered, but Harry could hear a slight off-ness in his voice.

"No, that's okay," Harry answered a little impatiently. "I've already found him."

"Why did you come? Think you can take on a _Dark Lord_ , little boy?" The woman from before teased manically.

"No," Harry answered honestly, wondering why he had come in the first place seeing as they all didn't believe he would. "Listen, I'm on a tight schedule. I have Double Potions at eight and Snape's kind of a massive dick."

That seemed to amuse the woman, for she laughed wickedly. It wasn't a nice sound and it sent warning sparks up Harry's spine.

"He is," the woman crowed. " _Massive_."

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he should take them all out and look for Voldemort himself.

The first Death Eater seemed to become impatient with the situation ( _finally_ , Harry thought irritably) and pointed his wand at Harry.

"Pick up the prophecy," he whispered dangerously, deep tenor ringing through the hall.

Harry looked around, making the assumption that these glass balls were prophecies. "Which one?" He asked, eyes searching the shelves.

"That one," the man hissed, pointing to a ball of glowing light on Harry's right.

"Okay," Harry answered agreeably, walking over and picking it up. Harry felt a small glow of magic sparkle in his hand and he realised that he was the only one able to pick it up. Interesting.

"Give it to me," the Death Eater encouraged, voice still tight as he stretched out his hand.

"Er, no," Harry said, but not unkindly. "I have a tradition of handing things to Voldemort. Show me to him?" Harry asked because he was damned if he went through all of the trouble to come to the Ministry and not even get to say hi.

"He's not here," the man finally growled out.

"What?" Harry asked, affronted.

"He doesn't have time to play with _little boys_ ," the woman cackled gleefully. Harry gave her a disturbed look, not sure if she was taking the piss or if she genuinely wasn't aware of how odd that sounded. Perhaps Harry had just spent too much time around Sirius and his filthy innuendos.

"Well, that's a little harsh," Harry stated, frowning as he felt a bolt of disappointment fill his stomach. "I came all of this way to not be rude and he can't even show up?"

"What?" The first Death Eater asked, sounding a little taken aback.

"He thinks he can take on our Lord!" The woman squealed excitably. "He probably thinks his widdle school training will help him fight!"

Harry scowled at her. None of them actually seemed to understand. _He just wanted to say hi._

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Harry muttered irritably. 'Whatever' had become a popular word in Harry's vocabulary; Sirius said it was a teenage thing.

Harry handed over the crystal ball to the first Death Eater so suddenly that the man nearly dropped it in surprise.

"Tell him that he had no manners _at_ _all_ ," Harry stated bitterly. "And that standing up people is just _rude_."

Harry wasn't sure why, but he was extremely offended. He couldn't remember the last time he was this upset. For some reason, he thought of Hermione's words a year before. Right now, he wasn't being a very good _meduza_.

"You know what? No, don't tell him any of that," Harry sighed as he deflated, though he realised that these Death Eaters probably weren't going to pass on his message anyway. "Is that all? 'Cause I'm going."

"No," the first Death Eater chuckled. "You're not going anywhere."

Simultaneously, the wand in Harry's face began to glow with uncast magic, Harry reached out and snapped it while wishing Very Hard that the Death Eaters would _go to sleep,_ and the door to the room opened with a bang. Several members of the Order of the Phoenix poured in as the Death Eaters dropped like stones, Harry caught the ball of light with his right hand, half of the first Death Eater's wand still in his left. Sirius barged forward as Harry smiled at him brightly.

"Oh, hey Sirius," Harry greeted. "Can I catch a ride home?"

Sirius growled and Harry blanched, stepping back. The man enclosed Harry in a tight hug and Harry relaxed as he felt the warmth of the man's chest envelope him. Harry hadn't experienced many growing up (or any, actually), but he was sure that this man gave the best hugs.

"You're worse than your father," Sirius grumbled with no heat at all. "How you keep getting yourself into these situations is becoming really alarming."

Harry smiled into the man's robes.

* * *

After the rather uneventful adventure in the Ministry, Harry discovered the prophecy about himself and Voldemort. Dumbledore came by the Ancestral House of Black to have a Very Serious conversation about it.

" _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_ " Trelawny's voice slowly puttered out in the library of House Black.

"Is that it?" Harry asked curiously.

Sirius spluttered. "Is – is that _it_?" The man repeated. "Harry, you've basically just been told that you need to fight the Dark Lord –"

"I didn't hear that," Harry interrupted, blinking at his godfather in surprise.

Dumbledore appraised Harry, eyes narrowed in thought. "What did you hear, Harry?" The old man asked.

"That I was prophesised to kill the Dark Lord, I did, and now he's back. The prophecy didn't make any mention of having to kill him over and over. It probably didn't take into account him being immortal," Harry answered. "Besides, what kind of calendar is it going on? Islamic, Buddhist, Jewish, Gregorian? I'm pretty sure there's hundreds of them. And just stating 'The Dark Lord' doesn't actually clarify anything. That could mean _any_ Dark Lord. I can't believe people are making a fuss over this tripe."

" _Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_?" Dumbledore pressed, not looking convinced.

Harry looked at him oddly. "I just said that I killed him already once. It probably meant Voldemort was surviving while I was living. Apparently, from what I've heard, he wasn't looking so good by the end of the War. He's much better since then. I guess you can say we're both living, now."

Dumbledore looked at Harry, pale and still. "You believe that the prophecy has run its course?" Dumbledore finally asked.

"Well, yeah," Harry answered, frowning. "That's clearly what it says. Weren't you listening?"

"Harry," Sirius sighed, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. "You have an odd perspective when it comes to things like this. But yes, you are making sense."

Harry looked at his godfather, smiling warmly. "I've spent my entire life watching from the outside," Harry murmured. "I'm pretty good at finding the rules of the game."

"Life isn't a game, Harry," Dumbledore said suddenly, looking at Harry with his bushy eyebrows drawn together. "You must understand that."

"Of course it is," Harry answered, cocking his head as he studied the Headmaster curiously. "If it's not, then that means my life just really sucks."

Dumbledore didn't really have anything to say after that.

* * *

After Harry's conversation with Dumbledore and Sirius, the pair decided (without Harry's contribution) that he needed to go through something called "Social Reintegration". Harry discovered that Sirius went through this shortly after being cleared of all charges while Harry was in Fourth Year and the man promised Harry that he'd come to each session. This made the forced meetings a little less unbearable.

Harry sat in a study, across the desk from a thin, greying man and listened to him give Sirius interesting, albeit nonsense, theories on why Harry was the way he was. The man yarned and yarned to Sirius until one day, nearly a month into their meetings, the man looked at Harry in surprise.

"Yes, Doctor Zhivago?" Harry asked as the man pinned him with a narrow-eyed stare. The doctor bristled.

"Harry, we've been through this," Sirius sighed. "His name is Doctor Welsh."

Harry winked at his godfather mischievously.

"I find it interesting," Doctor Welsh began slowly. "That I constantly find myself forgetting that you are here."

Harry shrugged. "I know I'm a boring person. I've resigned myself to the fact," he replied blandly.

"Au contraire," the doctor went on, Harry barely stifling an eyeroll, "I find that you are very interesting indeed. But there _is_ something about you that's keeping me away."

Harry pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at the doctor. "Oh?" He asked softly.

"I have seen you change into different clothes, different shoes… But I have never seen you without your glasses. Would you mind?" Welsh asked politely, but a gleam in his eye put Harry's teeth on edge.

"Yes," Harry answered politely, sitting on his hands and kicking his feet.

"Yes you mind or yes you'll taken them off?" Welsh pressed.

"Yes," Harry repeated, smiling disarmingly.

"Take them off," Welsh stated firmly.

"No," Harry disagreed, still smiling.

"Now," Welsh demanded sternly.

"No, thank you," Harry answered steadily, smile slipping.

"Harry," Sirius hissed.

Harry turned to his godfather in surprise. "Do I have to?" He asked the tired man, a little upset that Sirius wasn't taking his side.

Sirius frowned, but his body language did relax a bit. "Yes, Harry. Sorry, kiddo. There's no point doing this if you aren't going to listen and I promised myself that we could get through this."

Harry sighed, all fight seeping out of him. He lifted a shaking finger to his glasses and they hovered over the wire and metal for a moment, his brain not able to make his fingers pluck them off his nose.

"It's alright, Harry," Sirius whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Harry realised that his hand was shaking. Harry tried to stop, but it only increased his trembling further.

Harry only took off his glasses in private and even then he didn't look at himself. Harry wasn't even sure if Hermione had seen him without. Even during the Lake task, Harry had stuck the lenses to his face. The experience with the goblins and Mollie had left a bit of a black mark on his mind when it came to the matter.

Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled the frames off his face and his eyes shuttered, retreating inwards.

"Fascinating," Welsh breathed and Harry shuddered, recalling Damon saying the exact same thing in First Year.

" _Merlin_ , Harry," Sirius breathed. "You look – you look _completely different!_ "

Harry realised with a jolt that Sirius hadn't seen him either. He could count on one hand how many people had seen him without his People Repellent since he was six.

Harry didn't dare open his eyes, instead breathing deeply through his nose and focusing on remaining calm. Harry hated feeling like this, exposed and raw and suddenly very aware of reality. It sent shocks of pain down his spine.

"Depersonalisation," Welsh stated suddenly. "When a person goes through trauma, they can potentially disassociate from reality, watching life as if it through a screen, unable to participate. I'd say you haven't been yourself for a while now, Harry, have you?"

Harry didn't look at the man, instead keeping his eyes closed firmly. He did hum his agreement, however, as the man didn't seem like he'd give up unless he got an answer.

"A fascinating case of ego death and masks," Welsh continued. "Disassociation and derealisation. I wouldn't be surprised if Harry with the glasses on is a different person than Harry with the glasses off."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked a little suspiciously.

"Multiple personality disorder, perhaps. Or borderline personality disorder," Welsh stated into the room. "Or even just simply disassociation. I won't know for a while. Harry has created an untouchable persona with the glasses on and has slowly crushed his real self into dust. Harry cannot face me the way he is now, and yet with the glasses on I can barely see or touch him."

"Is that true, Harry?" Sirius asked, but he sounded very far away. Harry swallowed, feeling the beginnings of hysteria begin to well and block his throat.

"I'm a _meduza_ ," Harry whispered into the room.

"A medusa?" Sirius asked, sounding flabbergasted. "Like the snake woman?"

"No," Harry contradicted, eyelids still shut and breathing slowly through his nose. "A _meduza_ ," he corrected.

"What does that mean?" Welsh asked softly, encouragingly.

"Jellyfish," Harry answered simply.

"What does a jellyfish mean to you, Harry?" Welsh pressed, slowly peeling Harry apart with his questions.

Harry slowly opened his eyes, cracking them open. Welsh paled when Harry pinned him with a green-eyed stare, normally dulled and hidden behind his illusionary spectacles. Harry knew very well how creepy the colour was; the colour of death and poison.

"A brainless, floating creature that lives outside of life, no brain or heart, floating around unaffected and largely invisible until one day it washes up on the shore and people walking by will take pictures and poke at it and then it will become nothing," Harry answered honestly, reminding himself that he was doing this for Sirius.

"That's a very bleak outlook on life," Welsh said, looking a little unsure of himself as he did so.

"I don't think so," Harry whispered. "I think it's comforting."

"That's not healthy, Harry," Welsh said, sounding more confident. "You must learn to accept yourself and reality."

"Must?" Harry echoed, watching the man.

"Yes," Welsh stated, eyebrows drawing together.

"Or?" He challenged, drawing out the word, déjà vu sparkling in the back of his conscious.

Welsh looked at him curiously, then. "There's no punishment for not facing reality, Harry, other than what you will do to yourself and your loved ones as a result." There was no threat, no warning in the man's voice; just a simple statement of a basic fact.

Harry watched the doctor carefully as Welsh studied him right back. This man wasn't playing by the rules. People were supposed to be mean, to punish him, strip him down to his core and hurt him until he couldn't feel anything anymore. Lock him in cupboards and threats of orphanages and hanging kittens and painful tasks and twisted corpses and death-eyed snakes and torturous writing instruments. Not this simple, head on honesty in which Harry's weaknesses weren't being used against him or exploited for another's gain.

Sure, Sirius didn't do that to him. Hermione didn't do that to him. But that was because Harry _made sure they couldn't._

Harry felt his expression crumple in the face of Welsh's concerned stare.

* * *

 **End Act II**

* * *

 _A/N: I'm not sure if I have this in the right genre or even the right rating. Not really sure how far I can push the 'T' before it starts going into 'M' territory. I'd originally intended this to go in a romantic direction, but clearly it's going to take a while to get there. Let me know what you think :)_


	8. Chapter 8: Manifest Destiny

**Chapter 8: Manifest Destiny**

Doctor Walsh stole Harry's glasses. Harry razed the doctor's office, and subsequently the building, to the ground.

Sirius was Not Happy.

Harry didn't care. In fact, Harry was _mad._ Harry was also upset, hurt, happy, nostalgic, furious, betrayed – every single tumultuous emotion Harry hadn't felt since he was six years old racked his frame.

Even amongst the smoke and ashes, Doctor Welsh smiled.

Harry almost killed him. _Almost._ It wasn't for a lack of trying.

Sirius stood in front of the doctor, calling to him, trying to reach Harry through the haze of fury and pain and total emotional destruction.

Harry had barely stopped, moments away from decapitating his own godfather with the same viciousness that the Black Queen had destroyed the White King.

Harry realised that Doctor Welsh wasn't not trying to hurt him; Harry just hadn't figured out _how_ he was trying to crush Harry. Harry knew now. _Emotions_. Chess pieces on a marble board, watching the pawns and kings and knights and queens fight and die on the same playing field.

Harry made new glasses. They didn't work.

* * *

"Hello," Voldemort said.

Harry didn't look at him. This dream happened a lot. Harry sat in Doctor Welsh's office and across the desk, in the dark abyss, red eyes peered back. Harry was sure that there was a saying somewhere about peering into abysses, but Harry couldn't remember nor find it within himself to care. Philosophy wasn't his strong suit, anyway.

Harry stared at a trinket on the mahogany wood. Harry didn't know what it was, but it made of an arch and three balls hanging on strings in a row. One ball would swing out and roll back in, hitting the middle ball. The ball on the furthest side would then bounce away. The ball in the middle never moved, but the trinket stayed in constant motion, constantly back and forth in a battle of energy.

Harry felt like the middle ball. Constantly in motion, yet never moving. A frozen pendulum. Harry found it odd that he could relate to a trinket better than a human being.

"You're certainly very moody tonight," Voldemort tutted, voice crushed velvet. "Hormones, again?" Always trying to get under Harry's skin.

Harry knew the one thing Voldemort hated the most, and that was quite an accomplishment as the monster hated _a lot_ , was being ignored.

Harry ignored the Dark Lord.

Harry was still pissed off about being stood up in the Ministry. Harry didn't know why, but he was tired of analysing his emotions and didn't want to think about it.

"You can't ignore me forever, Potter," Voldemort stated suddenly as he leaned forward, the chill of his voice breathing forth like a dragon and crystallising the baubles on the desk. The room slowly iced over, frost climbing up the window panes and winding up Harry's arms in the way only possible in dreams. Or perhaps Voldemort was really a Hydra. Harry didn't know. Either answer wouldn't surprise him.

The pendulum swung and Harry ignored the Dark Lord, wishing the man would leave him alone. Harry didn't wish Very Hard, though. He didn't know why.

Voldemort reached out and grabbed the pendulum like a striking viper, stopping it mid-swing.

Harry woke up.

* * *

"Hey, kiddo," Sirius whispered, running a hand over Harry's hair. "It's alright. This school year will be tough, I've no doubt. But I'll always carry the mirror with me. Call anytime."

Harry looked at his godfather, wondering how one person could go through so much hell and come out alright on the other side. Perhaps Sirius was strong. Or maybe he was just an idiot. Either way, Harry wished he could be like that too.

They stood in front of Hogwarts, the gates leaning over the pair ominously.

"There's a Nidhogg under the school," Harry stated suddenly. "Though I guess it's not as bad as a nāga."

Sirius looked at Harry, eyebrows pulling together. "In English, pup," the man reminded. "I'm beginning to regret getting you those books."

Harry thought for a moment, frowning. Doctor Welsh (whom Harry still hated) suggested that Harry tell at least one secret about himself to a loved one each day.

Harry had thousands of secrets, seeing as he hadn't told anyone anything of value about himself ever, and he considered Sirius the only loved one worth telling the secrets to. Harry had smiled at that challenge. He was determined to be Doctor Welsh's most petulant, difficult patient ever.

"A Nidhogg," Harry repeated exasperatedly, wondering how to explain. "Oh, wait," Harry said abruptly, reconsidering. "No – I meant basilisk."

"What?" Sirius squawked, turning to Harry with fear in his eyes.

"Ginny Weasley sicked a basilisk on the students in Second Year," Harry added unhelpfully.

"She – wait," Sirius stammered. "The Weasley girl who went missing? She _what?_ "

"Ginny Weasley was possessed. Well, I think so. I don't have proof, so that's mostly hearsay. She sicked a basilisk on the students and then walked into the floor. Someone else walked out in her place," Harry stated. He turned back to the sight of the ancient castle sitting peacefully on the plains of the Scottish Highlands. Harry loved Hogwarts.

Sirius looked at Harry in horror, his eyes wider than saucers and mouth gaping like a fish.

Harry liked this new challenge to tell Sirius a secret each day. No matter how simply Harry put the secret, Sirius never seemed to understand.

* * *

School was hell. Everyone noticed Harry now and it made him want to rip off his skin and burn it.

Harry didn't, mostly because Sirius told him not to, but it didn't stop him from fantasising about it all the same.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was now a Death Eater and that irritated Harry. Harry followed the blond through the castle from under his cloak. Harry felt like himself when under the cloak. He thanked every deity that Welsh hadn't found out about it.

He followed Malfoy until something happened and he stopped.

Slughorn also thought he was awfully clever and tried, multiple times, to impose himself on Harry. Harry watched the man talk and talk and _talk_ until he wished Very Hard that the man would forget what he wanted to say just before he said it. Unless, of course, it was important.

Unfortunately for Slughorn, that required Harry to be around to decide if it was or not. Harry amused himself by asking the large man if a cat had caught his tongue and watched as his eyes grew wide in horrified realisation.

Dumbledore eventually made him unwish it (though Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the old man didn't really want to) which wasn't really possible as Harry had very little control over his own magic and could only wish Very Hard for something opposite instead of unravelling what had been done. He merely wished Very Hard that Slughorn could talk to his heart's content once more, but Harry had a feeling that there was a little more to the wish than what first met the eye. Harry was interested to see what form it took.

Even still, the experience took Slughorn out of Harry's hair for the rest of the year.

* * *

Dumbledore tried to teach Harry about Voldemort. It was very boring, took up a lot of his time, and required sticking his face in Dumbledore's gooey memories.

Harry wondered if pensives had a direct correlation to dementia, seeing as the man was getting dottier with each day. Maybe that's why the old wizard stuck his hand in a curse. Harry was surprised it wasn't his nose.

Harry finally realised what Dumbledore was telling him. Horcruxes. Yeah, okay. Harry could understand that.

He wondered why it took Dumbledore so long to get there.

* * *

"I gave Voldemort the Philosopher's Stone in First Year on the premise he'd return it and I don't think the monster gave it back to him," Harry mentioned to Sirius one day during Yule break. Harry stopped eating suddenly. "Actually, I didn't make him promise. I take back the last part. Who is the Philosopher, anyway?" He asked, realising he'd never considered this before.

"Okay, that's it," Sirius barked, jumping to his feet. Harry watched him carefully through his eyelashes, the man pacing back and forth past the kitchen table as if he were still a dog. Sirius acted like the Grim when he was upset.

"You're sending me these notes, day in and day out," Sirius muttered. "Sometimes it's little things, like which hand you prefer to write with or who your favourite Quidditch player is – which, by the way, you're not supposed to choose based on the fact you got to threaten him in Fourth Year – and I just – Harry," Sirius ended abruptly, turning to the boy.

Harry watched him patiently, only a little surprised it took this long for the man to break.

"Then you tell me these horrible things that – hell, I don't know if you're joking or serious or if you're actually crazy or not," Sirius said, mouth twisting. "And sometimes these things are enough to get you tossed in Azkaban for twice of my sentences. Stop telling me, Harry. Please," Sirius begged.

Harry shrugged softly, but it wasn't malicious. Harry really did love Sirius. He just wished (not Very Hard) that the man _understood_.

* * *

"The point of this exercise isn't to torture your godfather, Harry," Doctor Welsh said.

Harry smiled at him, the gesture appeasing. "Of course," Harry agreed.

"Then why are you doing it?" Welsh pressed.

"I'm not, at least not on purpose," Harry answered sincerely. "I just think you underestimated my secrets."

"Will you tell me one?" Welsh asked.

"What haven't I told you?" Harry retorted, laughing a little and waving his hand.

"Where you got that scar," Welsh stated and Harry stopped laughing.

Harry looked down at the large, mottled scar on his left hand. _I must not tell lies_. He remembered the horrified look in Umbridge's eye when she came back and found the words carved into a desk, Harry's hand twisting as the wounds tore bloodless, page after page of inkless writing scratched into parchment. Showing Umbridge how far _he_ would go.

 _I must not tell lies_.

"A professor," Harry answered simply.

"See, right there," Welsh stated pointedly, leaning back in his chair and sighing. "That's why your godfather can't do this."

Harry tilted his head as he watched Welsh's reaction. Harry knew the game now. Welsh was trying to make Harry think he was crazy.

Unfortunately for Welsh, Harry _knew_ he was crazy. He'd have to be (at least compared to his peers) for all the things he'd watched.

"How so?" Harry asked curiously.

"For one, teachers aren't allowed to torture their students," Welsh sighed heavily, looking for all intents and purposes like a very world-weary physician.

"Of course," Harry answered agreeably. "Anything else would be sick."

Welsh narrowed his eyes at Harry and frowned disapprovingly. "Yes," the man agreed tiredly, looking as if exhausted by the conversation.

Harry didn't buy it for a second.

* * *

The year was looking to be the most uneventful of all until Draco Malfoy tried to assassinate Dumbledore and couldn't, so Professor Snape did instead. Harry watched all of this from under his cloak. Harry's only escape from himself now was being under the cloak.

Death Eaters poured out of a room on the Seventh Floor, Hogwarts went into lockdown, and Harry watched curiously as chaos bloomed around him.

Harry chewed slowly, wondering why people seemed to die whenever he ate oranges. Perhaps he'd have to find a new favourite fruit.

* * *

"Doctor Welsh is Voldemort," Harry told Sirius on the first day of summer break. Harry couldn't wait to turn seventeen. It was going to be excellent.

Sirius turned to Harry, a jerk of his head that cracked his neck loudly.

"What did you say?" Sirius breathed, the dark lines under his eyes concerning.

"Doctor Welsh is Lord Voldemort," Harry repeated.

"Merlin, Harry," Sirius whispered. But it was a different kind of _Merlin_ that Harry was used to from Sirius. It was… Pitying. Worried. "What's going on, kid?" Sirius asked. "Is it Dumbledore's death? Listen, I know we're all a little strung out from the funeral and all but I really can't take this crazy talk right now."

Harry looked at Sirius, mystified for a moment, wondering when he'd gone too far.

"Are you having meetings with Doctor Welsh?" Harry asked. Harry didn't think he'd ever said anything so lightly or casually in his entire life.

"Yeah," Sirius said, running a hand through his rough hair. "Working through all of this… Stuff."

"Please don't see him anymore," Harry asked in his most genuine, polite tone.

"Harry, I'm serious," Sirius stated and Harry realised that he was, the man not usually one to give up the worn pun on his own name. "This whole insane thing is really going too far."

Harry stopped in the entrance hall of No. 12 Grimmauld Place. He stared at his godfather, the man looking downtrodden and completely beat.

Harry shuttered inwards in a moment of weakness and he wished a little Too Hard that Sirius had never found him.

Sometimes Harry forgot what his wishes could do.

* * *

It took six hours to bring Sirius' memories back. Harry went through every thought he could think of, watching Sirius experience each wish with confusion and agony. Harry wished over and over in frantic horror, the way a child would when they'd hurt their parents without meaning to. And, in a way, Harry had. It was the longest six hours of Harry's life.

At last, Sirius was Sirius again after having been torn apart and put back together. They sat in the library in heavy silence, Harry twisting his hands and Sirius watching the flames of a dying sunset out the library window.

They hadn't spoken in hours. They didn't know what to say.

Finally, Sirius sighed and leant forward, placing his hand over Harry's, stopping the boy from picking at his scars.

"I know you didn't mean to, kiddo. But you've really got to get a handle on this wishing thing. You're almost an adult now and you can't be doing this in the real world."

The real world sounded terrible to Harry. Voldemort didn't live in the real world. Why should he?

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. It was his first and last apology.

"What's this about Doctor Welsh, then?" Sirius asked, finally playing along. Finally understanding the seriousness of the situation.

"He wasn't always Voldemort," Harry whispered into the room, unable to meet Sirius' eye. "But he is now. I think Voldemort found him through my dreams."

Sirius sighed again, a long sound of suffering. "Okay, let's start from the beginning. Since when has Voldemort been in your dreams?"

* * *

Harry told Sirius everything. Well, most things. It took an enormous weight off his chest that he hadn't realised he was bearing. It felt good, to be honest.

Until Sirius tattled on him to Hermione.

That sucked. REALLY sucked. Capitals never doing anything justice.

* * *

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, bolting into the library of House Black.

"Hello," Harry greeted, pleasantly surprised. It was his birthday. Perhaps she brought him a gift.

The girl ran forward and slapped Harry across the face so hard that he felt his neck crack in protest. Harry blinked owlishly at the wall of the library for a few moments. Hermione held her hand to her chest.

"How _dare_ you?" Hermione hissed.

Harry turned his head and looked at the girl. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Harry wondered if that meant she'd been crying.

"How dare I what?" Harry asked, perplexed.

The girl collapsed into a chair next to him, hiccupping. "You – you gave _Voldemort_ the Philosopher's Stone. _You're_ the reason I was petrified in second year. And why Diggory died. How – how can you _live_ with yourself?" She asked, at first furiously roaring but as the words went on she got quieter and quieter.

They sat in silence in the darkened room.

"I'm a muggleborn, Harry," Hermione whispered. Harry wasn't sure why she was telling him; he knew. "Voldemort will try to kill me. And my parents. And everyone I love. How – how can you be alright with that?"

Hermione turned big, brown eyes to him and Harry realised that it would appear that way to Hermione.

"I didn't do anything," Harry said softly.

"Exactly, Harry," Hermione answered vehemently. "You did _nothing_. Why?" She asked, hinging on hysterical.

"I didn't know how to stop it," Harry answered honestly.

"You could have told someone!" Hermione cut through. "Anyone! Dumbledore, McGonagall, me – Harry, the choices are _endless_."

Harry looked at her, then. Hermione didn't see. And sometimes, no matter how clever the girl was, she wouldn't be able to unless he led to her to the water. It her choice if she drank.

"No one has ever believed anything I've ever said until it was too late," Harry said calmly. "Why would they start now?"

Hermione looked at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" She asked, mouth ajar.

"Why would it be my job to tell someone who Quirrell was? Dumbledore knew; that much is for sure. Dumbledore knew that Tom Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets and I'm pretty sure McGonagall knew too. Dumbledore knew that Sirius never had a trial. Why have a TriWizard Tournament when the international Quidditch game was ransacked by Death Eaters, or when Tom Riddle was a newly elected Ministry advisor?" Harry paused for a moment, watching Hermione open her mouth as if to speak.

"What about fifth year – when they knew what Umbridge was and didn't lift a finger to stop it?" Harry cut her off, suddenly unable to turn off the tap that was his mouth. "Was it because they thought it was better to be able to watch over the tortured students and not be able to do anything rather than be fired and not be able to watch at all? I didn't try to hide my scars, Hermione; I didn't need to. No one had to. Dumbledore knew about Malfoy in Sixth Year. So did Snape. When has a professor or adult or student ever protected or believed us, Hermione?" Harry ended curiously, breathlessly, wondering if that was the longest he'd ever spoken.

Hermione didn't do well with answers. She did better with questions and riddles and coming to an answer on her own.

Hermione looked at him for a long time, processing the information. Her face crumpled. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I… I haven't looked at it like that."

Harry's eyebrows drew together. "Why not? When has any witch or wizard ever actually stood up for you?"

Hermione looked up in surprise. "You," the word ringing like a bell, churning Harry's stomach. "With Krum. And Umbridge, even though she gave you months of detention after that."

Harry blinked. "Oh. Yeah, okay," Harry conceded. "But that's a little against the point."

"Harry," Hermione said suddenly. "Who is Tom Riddle?"

Hermione knew who Tom Riddle was, or at least his politician shell, but Harry wondered if the girl really did want to know Who he was. He told her anyway.

* * *

"You've been very active, Harry," Voldemort told him. "Most unlike yourself, my little watcher. I was disappointed when Sirius didn't show up for his session."

Harry finally looked up across the desk, meeting Voldemort's eyes for the first time since these dreams started. Voldemort didn't seem surprised but Harry knew he was. It wasn't the most taunting thing Voldemort had said to date, so he knew the monster hadn't expected it to work.

"So have you," Harry answered back conversationally and relaxing into the leather chair, smiling charmingly as if he hadn't spent the last thirteen months pretending Voldemort was a figment of his imagination; a bogey-man that would disappear if ignored.

Voldemort sat back, appraising him with hellfire eyes. The creature looked exactly as he had when he walked into the Champion's room in Fourth Year. Voldemort hadn't aged, hadn't changed. Like an animated statue of marble. A chess piece that didn't know it was in a game.

"My, talking now, are we?" Voldemort hummed playfully, his lips quirking up in a mockery of a smile. "And I see you've aged very well. I'm glad you're no longer trying to keep up the illusion. Seventeen yesterday, was it?"

Harry watched him, interested. Voldemort often said things that didn't make sense until later. He wondered if this was one of those times.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "I'm an adult, I think."

Voldemort laughed. "Yes, seventeen is the age of maturity in the wizarding world. How have you spent all this time amongst wizarding kind and still not know the basic customs of our ways?"

Harry wondered that too, sometimes, but moreover Harry wondered how Voldemort understood what he meant when no one else did.

"Is that common?" Harry asked, feeling like a First Year again, facing down the dog from hell.

"No," Voldemort said, eyes glinting. "It's not common at all."

"Ah," Harry mused. "I guess I've just never been very good at being a person."

Voldemort studied him right back. "Neither have I," the man said. It wasn't comradery. It was just simply a fact.

Harry hummed back in agreement, looking around the room curiously. It was definitely Doctor Welsh's office, but shadows stuck to the walls, flickering ominously. He wondered if this was Voldemort's dream or his.

"You're on the cusp of life, Harry," Voldemort stated suddenly, looking as if he were eating a plush fruit for his expression was so smugly delectable. "So many excellent experiences before you. First kiss, first love, first job, first everything. Aren't you _excited_?" The man drawled, obviously disgusted with firsts.

"I've already had my first kiss," Harry answered, surprised as the words tumbled out of his mouth. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

Voldemort's eyes glimmered. "Oh?" He asked.

Harry hummed again. "Draco Malfoy. He kissed me this year," Harry told him, not sure why he was.

A muscle twitched on Voldemort's face, like a mask flickering and showing the monster beneath – too quickly to catch but long enough to have seen it happen.

"Did you ask for it?" Voldemort crooned, appearing amused. The shadows grew longer.

"No," Harry answered, watching the man's reaction with fascination. It normally took a lot to get under Voldemort's skin, but he had. Harry wondered how. "I cursed him."

Voldemort smirked darkly, the shadows in the office still growing. "Good boy," Voldemort whispered. "I thought your secrets were only for loved ones. Am I a loved one, Harry?"

Harry thought for a moment. "I wouldn't say loved one. I don't feel like you've ever been loved by anyone. Why should it start with me now?"

"I would say the same for you, but it appears you now have a mutt of your own panting at your feet," Voldemort answered, the words biting despite his pleasant tone. Harry didn't like when Voldemort threatened Sirius.

"Have you ever had a dog?" Harry asked, suddenly uncomfortable, skin itching under the scrutiny of Voldemort's gaze.

Voldemort frowned. "No," he stated. Then, to Harry's surprise, he continued. "I did have a bunny for a few minutes. Then I strung it from the rafters. Rather alike to your kitten, I might say, though perhaps from the other side of the glass. I do have a snake, though. She's hardly a pet."

"I like snakes," Harry answered honestly. Two secrets in one day. Harry was on a roll.

"Would you like to see her?" Voldemort asked smoothly.

"Unless she can come here, not really," Harry replied just as easily.

Voldemort laughed. "You don't have to fear me, Harry. If I wanted to kill you –"

"I feel like we're going in circles," Harry cut him off. "Long circles that take years, but around and around all the same."

Voldemort looked irritated that Harry had interrupted and waved his hand dismissively. A massive python slowly melted into the room, blurry at first but clearer with each passing moment.

"I didn't know nāgas enjoyed human company," Harry stated conversationally.

Voldemort looked at him irritably as the snake hissed, 'I'm not a _nāga_ you _stupid boy_!'

Harry looked at it apologetically. He didn't know this snake could understand English.

'My mistake,' Harry answered the snake in its own strange language. 'What are you, then?'

Voldemort inhaled sharply then, the room caving in as if over a sinkhole. Harry watched in surprise as the man reared back, expression haunted, and the dream ended abruptly.

Harry sat up in bed, wondering what it was he'd said.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone for your really kind reviews, favourites & follows. I like reading your different opinions and perspectives on the story; I wasn't sure if anyone would like it! Now that Harry's seventeen, I'm a little more comfortable going forward with the whole relationship thing. In regards to the the jarring style of the chapter, I wanted it to feel as choppy and off as Harry feels when exposed as himself - hopefully I've conveyed that._


	9. Chapter 9: Naturwissenschaften

**Chapter 9:** **Naturwissenschaften**

When Harry woke up later in the morning, it was if a veil had been pulled from his eyes. He inhaled sharply through his nose, the clarity of the room sparkling, watching the dust particles dance in the early beams of light. A stillness filled his mind, smoothing out the crinkles of the last school year.

When Harry got better, he hadn't expected it to be all at once. But in that moment, Harry didn't feel like ripping off his flesh and crawling out of his own body for the first time in over a year. He felt ripples of emotion scatter across his chest, aware but not painfully so. Laughing lightly, wondrously, as his heart soothed.

Perhaps it was because Sirius and Hermione finally understood. Saw him for what he was and though they fought at first, they didn't run screaming. Or perhaps Harry had just missed talking to Voldemort. He didn't put too much thought into that last one.

Harry sat at the kitchen table and watched Sirius talk. Harry hadn't realised how intense Sirius was before, the man beaming and chattering and overall brighter than the sun. Insane, yes, but that was a trademark Black trait. Sirius was something else. He understood why his parents made the man his godfather. Or would it be dogfather? The thought had Harry smiling.

"Harry," Sirius said suddenly, tone solemn and eyes creased. Harry tilted his head, considering, listening with crystal clarity. "I'm sorry about the… _Thing_ with Hermione yesterday. I didn't mean to tell her everything, it just… I asked to speak to her about it and I didn't realise you hadn't told her because you two spend so much time together and I just… I couldn't stop talking once I got started. I'm sorry, Harry," Sirius ended lamely, looking very much like a kicked dog.

Harry looked at Sirius in surprise, eyebrows raised and blinking owlishly. "I know," Harry said softly, wondering how he had gone so long without being so aware of everything and everyone, only facing inwards and drowning all the more for it. "I don't care. I wouldn't have told you if I was scared of other people finding out."

Sirius looked as if slapped. "You expected me to talk?" Sirius asked, heartbroken.

"You're not a saint, Sirius," Harry laughed, brushing away his godfather's offence. "And I wouldn't care if you told everyone or if you told no one. Though, I would advise against discussing some of the darker stuff. Azkaban, and all that," Harry elaborated unnecessarily. "I wouldn't be surprised if Hermione tells McGonagall, seeing as she's apprenticing with her for the summer."

Sirius looked devastated. "Oh, Merlin."

"Don't be so upset," Harry said a little delightedly. "We'll just wait and see what happens. Surprises are always fun."

"Holy fuck, Harry," Sirius breathed suddenly, approaching him rapidly. Two warm, heavy hands clapped on Harry's shoulders and he looked into Sirius' icy blue eyes with a smile. "Are you feeling alright?" Sirius asked, concerned.

"Yup," Harry answered, popping the _p_. "I feel pretty good."

Sirius then wrapped Harry in a strong, bone-crushing hug. "Merlin, I thought I'd lost you for a while there," the man muttered, his voice sounding suspiciously thick. "Does it have anything to do with Hermione? You too have been awfully close lately."

Harry pushed on the chest against his with open palms, eyebrows drawn together and mouth twisted in confusion. "Hermione? How so?" Harry asked, baffled by Sirius' non-sequitur.

"Like – you know," Sirius began, grinning wolfishly. "Don't you _like_ her?"

Harry laughed then, a deep, wonderous noise that filled the room. Sirius smiled too unsurely. Harry liked that about Sirius, the man always willing to smile.

"Oh, no," Harry chucked. "Hermione knows that I'm gay."

Sirius reared back in surprise. "You're – what?" He asked, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find words to fill the room.

"Haven't I told you?" Harry asked in surprise, not missing a beat. "Oh, well. I guess that counts as my secret for the day. Will you tell me one?" Harry continued nonchalantly, not interested in anything his godfather might have to say regarding Harry's sexuality.

And wasn't that an odd word for Harry to associate with himself. Sexuality. Harry had never really considered it before until now. Though he supposed he should have; most of his peers were already well past the beginning stages of dating and now moving onto more serious relationships. It never interested Harry before.

"Will I – wait, _what_?" Sirius stuttered.

"A secret. I've told you lots, even though you didn't really want to hear them," Harry answered, beaming.

"Oh," Sirius said, still looking a little sunstruck and taken aback. "Yeah, sure. Um…" Sirius was quiet for a moment. "I don't know how you do this. I can't think of anything," Sirius said, deflating.

"A secret about my dad, then," Harry encouraged. Why hadn't he ever asked about his parents?

"Oh, I've got one!" Sirius said excitedly. "Your dad was an Animagus like me. He turned into a stag," Sirius said, grinning. "We used to take Moony to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon and we'd play with him to take his mind off the transition. Wormtail came too, but that was before we knew he was a disgusting traitor, obviously." The words were said with very little heat; Sirius seemed to get over his rage of the betrayal (though forever heartbroken) after snapping Wormtail in two.

Harry laughed in amusement. "That's excellent," he crowed. "I would have loved to have seen that."

Sirius looked at Harry oddly. "Not Hermione, but definitely someone. Who?" The man teased.

Harry flushed darkly. He wasn't sure why Sirius was pressing the matter. Harry didn't like _anyone_ like that. "No one," Harry said primly, turning away, though amusing himself at the thought of saying _You Know Who._

"Ah, denial," Sirius swooned dramatically. "Let me know when you've given in."

Harry flushed even darker. There was no way in hell he was going to tell his godfather if his mind spontaneously exploded and he fell in love with a Dark Lord. And suddenly unsure why he was even thinking of Voldemort.

* * *

A package came by owl two days after Harry's birthday. Harry looked at the strange parcel, wrapped in velvety leather and tied with expensive ribbon.

Sirius crowed, "Ha, Potter!" Looking as if the cat who had caught the canary.

Harry looked at him in surprise, disturbed by his godfather's reaction.

"That's a courting gift. Looks like you're on someone's mind, after all," the old dog whistled, leaning back and failing to stifle a look of infuriating smugness.

Harry paled. If it were to be a gift from Voldemort, Harry wasn't sure if he should open it in front of Sirius. Voldemort had an odd sense of humour.

It was indeed a gift from Voldemort. Though why the monster was sending gifts in courting wrapping, Harry wouldn't know. Harry unwrapped the parcel carefully, lifting the heavy wood lid and slamming it shut swiftly.

"Go on, then," Sirius badgered. "Let me see."

"No," Harry retorted shortly, face twisting. Harry wrapped his arms around the box protectively despite wanting to throw it out the window.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Harry, I've seen every embarrassing courtship gift under the sun. You should have seen what your father tried to give your mother," the man laughed a little manically, lost in a memory.

"It's not embarrassing," Harry said, despite blushing. It wasn't. But Sirius wouldn't understand. To be honest, Harry didn't either.

"Then let me see!" Sirius demanded, launching across the room.

Harry squawked and toppled with Sirius as he was tackled, the box tumbling out of his hands. Harry watched, face ashen in despair, as the head of Draco Malfoy rolled across the floor.

Sirius screamed.

* * *

Sirius made Harry put the box over the head on the floor. It reminded Harry of the time Aunt Petunia made Harry put a mug over a spider in the bathtub, demanding that he leave it there until the spider died. Harry didn't think Malfoy's head could get any deader.

Sirius quickly left the kitchen and sat in the library, head between his knees as he tried to calm his breathing. Harry followed behind, disappointed that the brief peace between them had been ruined so soon. Sirius alternated between hyperventilating and gagging, as if not sure if he should breath or vomit.

"Harry," Sirius finally stated after a long time of breathing and gagging.

"Yes?" Harry asked, turning his head to appraise his godfather.

"Why – why is Draco Malfoy's head in our kitchen?" The man choked out, looking all the more green for it.

"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "Well, I have an idea. I can't believe it's in the kitchen; we _eat_ in there," Harry sighed exasperatedly.

"You have an idea?" Sirius asked a little hysterically.

"Draco Malfoy kissed me this year," Harry stated, feeling like he was repeating himself a lot now.

" _Malfoy?_ " Sirius squawked, looking horrified.

Harry recalled the moment Malfoy cornered him in the dorms. Their other dormmates had gone to class and Harry was coming out of the shower, clothes on but hair wet. Malfoy had grabbed him suddenly, wrapped arms around his waist, told Harry he was beautiful in a simpering tone, and then pressed an open-mouthed kiss on Harry's lips. It was heated, demanding, and wanton. It was nothing that Harry expected nor asked for. Harry hated it. The fumbling feeling of Malfoy's hands on his hips, a tongue pressed against the crease of his lips, the blond pushing and prodding and pressing him against the wall as if a ragdoll. Horror and disgust welled in his chest, filling him with panicked fury.

Harry wished Very Hard that Draco Malfoy wouldn't be able to feel attracted to anyone ever again. That had nipped Malfoy's advances on him (and anyone, really) in the bud. Malfoy had let him go and Harry punched him for good measure.

"Yes," Harry said distantly, shuddering at the memory.

"Hey," Sirius announced suddenly, placing a hand over Harry's. "What happened?" There was genuine concern in his eyes. Harry was amazed that Sirius could express so much even when he said very little.

"I didn't want him to, but he tried anyway," Harry said, allowing the greasy feeling of disgust spread across his chest. Harry had shut down after that, hiding behind his cloak even more and staying away from his peers. They'd found a new way to torture him, even Zabini running a hand over his back on occasion. Harry had _hated_ it.

Sirius looked furious. "That little shit tried to –" Sirius cut off, eyes darkening and mouth twisting. Harry watched Sirius curiously, not sure what this new emotion was. Fury? Hatred? Rage? Fear?

"You should have told me, Harry," Sirius said then. "So I could have decapitated the twat myself."

Harry blinked at Sirius. That wasn't what he was expecting. "Why?" Harry enquired, curious.

"Harry," Sirius sighed deeply, his other hand wrapping around Harry's scarred left. "How did you feel when Malfoy touched you?" Sirius had dark shadows in his eyes. A little bit like Voldemort, but different. Protective, not territorial. Harry played along, if only to understand.

"I didn't like it. He was following me around a bit before then, sometimes touching my back, sometimes my hands. I told him to stop, but he didn't. And then everyone left the dorms and he kissed me and I panicked," Harry said blankly. "I didn't want him to touch me and I told him not to, using my words like Doctor Welsh and I practiced, but I couldn't get him to stop."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sirius swore, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Harry inhaled sharply; Sirius only used muggle swear words when he was Really Upset.

"What's wrong, Sirius?" Harry asked, not sure what this new experience meant.

"That's at least sexual harassment, Harry," Sirius said suddenly, fire in his eyes. "I know you have a habit of understatement, so I'm going to assume it's at least twenty percent worse than what you're saying."

"But that's how you told me mum and dad got together," Harry answered unsurely. "Isn't that just how it works?"

Sirius looked appalled. "No, it was _nothing_ like that for James and Lily! James – sure he was persistent, but he would never… I mean, he did kiss Lily once and she slapped him but –" Sirius cut off, looking at a loss for words.

"How is it any different than what you do, hitting on girls and flirting and bothering them at the pub?" Harry pressed, seeking the boundaries, looking for the rules.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably, then. "I… I can't really explain," he said. "It's one of those things that you just _know_. You can get a feeling, most times, if a person is playing along or if they're not interested. But if they explicitly say no, then you stop. I imagine that Malfoy had no pretences about how you felt about the matter; you're not exactly shy when it comes to telling people to fuck off."

"That doesn't help me," Harry stated, frowning. Sirius wasn't making much sense.

"What about this new suitor of yours?" Sirius pressed, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Is this unwanted too?"

Harry opened his mouth, paused, and closed it. He didn't know.

"Who is it, Harry?" Sirius asked darkly. "It's not exactly a thing to give other people's heads as courting gifts," he said sarcastically, scowling.

"No?" Harry asked, tone surprised. "Oh." Harry wasn't stupid, he knew it wasn't meant to be like that. But Harry couldn't find it in himself to say Voldemort's name. Not when Sirius had finally come back around.

Sirius looked at him, face twisting, disturbed. "No, Harry," Sirius stated firmly. "It's really important to me that you know that. Murdering people and gifting their body parts is illegal _and_ immoral, even if they're little shits that deserve it. Ask your boyfriend to stop. Though God knows it only makes sense you'd attract someone as twisted as you." Sirius wasn't being mean. Despite the horror of the situation, Sirius almost sounded amused.

Harry flushed a heated red (the thought of calling Voldemort a 'boyfriend' almost making him burst into hysterical laughter – he wondered if that would get under Voldemort's skin too) and he nodded, escaping the library before Sirius could say anything else.

* * *

Harry got a few other gifts later that week. Blaise Zabini's finger in a matchbox (the finger he'd used to run down Harry's spine and rested dangerously low on his back – how Voldemort knew, Harry wasn't sure) and a pair of jagged, bleeding lips. Harry wasn't sure who those belonged to, but Harry had the feeling they'd said something mean about him.

Harry was tired of receiving body parts like a cat owner receving dead treats from their pet. He gave in and wrote Voldemort a letter, thanking him for the gesture but letting Voldemort know that gifts were clearly not the monter's strong suit. Harry sent Voldemort a list of his hobbies and recommended that Voldemort pick something suitable.

Sure, it was wildly cheeky, but if Voldemort was going to go through the effort of courtship gifts, he might as well get Harry a set of scales for potions while he was at it.

* * *

"I'm not sending you a snitch," Voldemort said into the dark room. Harry opened his eyes and realised that he was back in Doctor Welsh's office. It had been over a week since Voldemort had panicked and ended their last chat. Voldemort looked furious, eyes glittering spitfire red and mouth pursed in a tight line.

"Okay," Harry said, waving his hand. "Whatever works for you. I don't mind."

"I'm not _shopping_ for you, Potter," Voldemort sneered, voice dangerously quiet. "I'm making a _point_."

"What kind of point?" Harry asked curiously, watching Voldemort seethe.

Voldemort laughed suddenly, the tension in the room breaking minutely. "You're so oblivious I find myself wondering why I even try at all," the man chuckled, long nails tapping the mahogany desk in a rhythmic tempo. "Perhaps I should just show you."

"Show me?" Harry pressed. Voldemort scowled darkly and Harry remembered how the man hated when Harry repeated what he said in the form of a question. "Okay, show me." Harry didn't know what Voldemort meant, but was curious all the same.

Voldemort stopped tapping his nails on the desk and all was silent between the two. Voldemort's eyes flashed, reflecting candles in the room that weren't there, and a slow smirk spread across his lips. For a moment, Harry wished he could take the words back. Strangely enough, not Very Hard.

 _'How long have you known you could speak Parseltongue?'_ Voldemort asked instead, eyes studying Harry as if he were a fascinating specimen.

Harry shrugged. Harry didn't know what Parseltongue was, but he supposed it could mean the strange snake language. It sounded like something someone would call a snake language.

' _Come now,'_ Voldemort crooned, taunting, always taunting. ' _Don't be shy_.'

Harry looked at Voldemort, holding out, smiling charmingly.

' _Talk,'_ Voldemort demanded suddenly, eyes sharpening as he laced the word with compulsion.

Harry stopped smiling, but didn't speak.

Voldemort flung his hand out and a silent spell hit Harry squarely in the chest, making him wheeze upon the force of the impact. A soft, seductive voice in his head sang over and over, _talk to me in Parseltongue Harry come now love just a few words let's hear it –_

"I don't appreciate being Imperiused," Harry stated, griping the arms of the chair tightly, expression as relaxed as possible. "And you have no right to demand from me."

Voldemort looked shocked. Well, the most shocked Harry had ever seen him. The red eyes only widened marginally.

"I find myself more intrigued with each passing day," Voldemort whispered sweetly as the spell evaporated. "Though you'll find that I have the right to demand as much as I want from you."

"How so?" Harry asked, not protesting, wanting to see where this would go.

"You're mine," Voldemort laughed, as if amused that Harry didn't know yet.

"I'm no one's," Harry answered firmly, nails digging into leather. "Only my own."

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort drawled, tasting the words, head tilting with unnatural smoothness as he appraised Harry. "You're all mine and you don't even know it. You will soon enough."

' _Fuck you,'_ Harry answered simply, finally in Parseltongue, wondering what Voldemort would do. The man didn't seem to take challenges to his control very well.

Partially anticipated though totally unexpected, Voldemort launched over the desk and slammed into Harry. Harry gasped in aching pain as his breath was knocked out of him, Voldemort pulling him out of his chair and rolling across the floor. Harry was pressed into the dark, thick shadows of the room, Voldemort pinning him down, red eyes staring down through inky darkness and trapping Harry with their hellfire light.

Harry didn't realise that one could do this in dreams. Touch, feel, taste all within the metaphysical. It made sense, though, as those things were sensations of the mind anyway. Harry was wrapped in the darkness that was Voldemort, holding him down, unnaturally pale hands braced on either side of his head. Voldemort rarely used physical force, mostly choosing to use magic, unless of course he was trying to make a very specific point. Harry wondered what it was.

"Fuck me?" Voldemort repeated smoothly, tone sweet as honey. It was a threat, a promise, and death wrapped in one, a pretty present seeping from Voldemort's lips and dripping into Harry's soul.

Harry couldn't help it – he shivered. A mouth descended on his with the viciousness of a cobra strike and Harry gasped in surprise, not having expected this turn of events but opening to it all the same.

The mouth was cruel, sharp, biting – more than anything Harry had ever experienced or felt and it was too much too much too much not enough – Harry arching into the frame above, mind reeling, eyes rolling back in his head and a moan swallowed from the back of his throat by another, tasting ashes and magic –

Voldemort pushing him down cruelly, a hand ripping at Harry's hair and a knee between his legs, grinding down and claiming and possessive –

Harry inhaled sharply as sharp teeth bit down on his lip and he woke up suddenly, drenched in sweat and shaking roughly. Harry felt his fingers skitter across the bedspread, making sure Voldemort wasn't there with him, panting and so, so terribly aroused as thoughts flashed through his mind.

Harry felt heat curl in his abdomen, his chest clench uncomfortably, wanting to find Voldemort and finish what the asshole started. To scratch back and make the untouchable Dark Lord as bent out of shape as Harry felt.

Harry stopped suddenly, a feeling of surprise and understanding dousing him with cold water. He focused on his churning emotions, like Welsh taught him (when Welsh was Welsh and not a Dark Lord), and came to a terrible conclusion.

 _Harry wanted Lord Voldemort_.

* * *

Harry wasn't sure how, but the marks from his dreams carried through into reality. Harry didn't know when, but the monster had scratched his chest and bit his neck and Harry was covered with bruise after bruise. Harry hid his swollen bottom lip and marked neck from Sirius by claiming to be sick and staying in bed all day.

Harry laid in bed and wallowed miserably.

 _Want_. Harry didn't understand the word nor the meaning. Even though Harry wished a lot, Harry had truly wanted very little in his entire life. He knew of only one thing that he wanted – a family. But that was a long time ago, he had one now, and Voldemort would never give Harry something like a family. Harry snorted at the idea. Voldemort was simply Voldemort. A cause of death, a plague, destruction, chaos, hellfire, the absence of everything and everyone.

Harry found himself inexplicit drawn to Voldemort. Harry didn't think it was love, perhaps lust, but not love. Maybe it could be one day. How did one know when it was love? Harry didn't want to love Lord Voldemort.

* * *

"It was very rude of you to leave," Voldemort said amusedly, tapping his nails on the desk again. So cool, calm and collected. Harry hated him for it.

Harry couldn't look at him, couldn't meet the monster's eyes.

' _Why did you kiss me?_ ' Harry answered, only vaguely aware he wasn't speaking English. His chest felt raw and sore from processing his thoughts and emotions all day. Harry didn't understand why he couldn't hide from emotions, _why_ he had to process them when they felt like this. Harry watched the pendulum swing and wondered what Voldemort was playing at.

"Look at me," Voldemort hissed. Harry's eyes flickered up, too tired to fight.

"Good boy," Voldemort whispered, appraising, Harry flinching at the words. "And as someone once said to me, why not?"

Harry frowned at him. "You should have told them that's a cheap answer."

Voldemort laughed, the coldness of his voice bringing the room temperature down a few notches. "Indeed," he agreed. "Besides, I wanted to," Voldemort continued flippantly, nails still clattering that annoying tempo on the desk. "Wanted to see how you would react. Rather well, I might say."

"I don't like being kissed," Harry told him firmly, the way Sirius taught him how to say what he wanted without wishing. "Please don't do it again."

"Oh, Harry," Voldemort tutted, pitying. "You never did learn how to lie. Besides, after your first kiss was so terrible, I thought I'd be the one to give you your first _good_ kiss. The kind that'll have you wanting more."

Harry scowled. "I've had enough of kissing for a lifetime, thank you," Harry answered petulantly. Harry didn't care if he was being childish; Voldemort started it first. "And of talking about it. Why am I here?"

Voldemort considered Harry for a moment, fingers suddenly still. The silence was deafening. "I don't know, Harry," Voldemort answered softly, dangerously. "This is your dream, not mine."

"They're not all mine," Harry sighed, irritated, tired of being out in the open all of the time, so raw and obvious and malleable. "Some must be yours." Harry hated the word must, but he couldn't imagine anything else to say.

"Oh, no, Harry," Voldemort crooned darkly. "They're _all_ yours. I think you just don't know exactly how much you like me, dear." Teasing, cruel, always so brutal. The hairs on Harry's arms rose.

Harry stared at Voldemort, face ashen as he processed the information. _He_ was the one calling Voldemort each night? Or was Voldemort lying, trying to get under his skin and watch him bleed?

Harry suddenly didn't care what the answer was. He reached out quickly and knocked the pendulum off the desk, golden brass smashing to the floor, closing his eyes as the dream ended, warping around Voldemort's smug grin.


	10. Chapter 10: Once Upon A Time

**Chapter 10: Once Upon A Time**

"No," Harry said.

"Yes," Sirius answered.

"Unconditionally no," Harry stated.

"Absolutely yes," Sirius retorted.

"You can't make me," Harry breathed, eyes wild.

"You wanna bet?" Sirius snarled.

"What?" Hermione cut through, poking her head through the fireplace.

Harry and Sirius turned to Hermione, floo calling in not a moment earlier.

"Sirius wants me to go to a _gala_ ," Harry said scathingly. Hermione's eyebrows rose.

"Harry doesn't do galas," Hermione huffed. "He didn't even come to the Yule Ball when he was a Champion. McGonagall lost the plot," she said, laughing.

"Well, he's doing this one," Sirius said sternly, brooking no room for argument.

"Yeah, okay, well I was going to ask Harry to come with me to the new bookshop in Langington Alley but I can see that's not going to happen," Hermione said, frowning.

"I want to go to the bookshop!" Harry said, jumping up and making a break for the fireplace. Hermione's head disappeared as she reared back in surprise, scared Harry would trample her.

Sirius caught the scuff of Harry's collar before he could get three steps away from the kitchen table. "You're coming to the fucking ball, damnit," he growled. "I'm _not_ going alone!"

"Is that what this is about?" Harry asked, aghast. "You don't want to go _alone_?"

"Yes, Potter. And you're coming with me, whether you try to wish your pretty little head out of it or not," Sirius answered, eyes alight with demonic determination.

Harry despaired.

* * *

Perhaps Harry had not made himself clear enough. Harry HATED balls, functions, events, gatherings, soireés, parties, galas, and any event that required him to be around a large amount of people (which was specifically classified as more than Hermione and Sirius, those people exactly). And that didn't even include the socialising. Dear god, the _socialising._

There was guaranteed to be food, music, dancing, jolliness, and worst of all (and dreaded of all) – small talk.

Harry nearly vomited.

* * *

"Heir Black!" A woman tittered, extending her hand. Sirius grinned dashingly, bowing and taking the woman's tiny appendage. It was kissed delicately and two bright spots of blush bloomed on the woman's cheeks. It was so completely practiced and fake that Harry nearly laughed as the woman swooned. As if reading Harry's thoughts, Sirius' eyes flashed and the man gave Harry a piercing look out of the corner of his eye. Harry bit his lip and busied himself with looking at candle chandeliers. Luckily for Harry, there were dozens of them.

There was something very particularly annoying about that night. Harry knew word of his ability to do Strange Things had gotten around (especially since the Taming of the Dragon in fourth year, as referred to by The Prophet) and Harry was under no illusions that people wouldn't proposition him to their side. The war now loomed dangerously over Britain, the shadow of the beast casting shade on muggle and wizarding alike.

For some reason, that thought made Harry a little happier. Beasts shouldn't entertain Harry, but Harry was entertained by a lot of things he shouldn't be.

Harry's eyes glazed over and he stared at a wall blankly, not even pretending to notice the diplomats trying to garner his attentions. Harry was two thoughts away from wishing Very Hard that he was literally _anywhere_ other than Here when a cold, smooth hand wound itself around the back of his neck.

"Hello, little watcher," a voice crooned in his ear, deep and sultry and sending painful sparks of awareness down Harry's spine.

Harry tilted his head to the side, a hair's breadth away from the face of Voldemort, brown eyes flashing red. A coil of heat twisted dangerously in Harry's stomach and he attempted a brittle mockery of a smile.

"Hello, Vol –" the hand on his neck tightening dangerously "Advisor Riddle," Harry ended politely, smiling a little stronger now. How easy it was to get under the man's skin in public. Harry felt a little mischievous; he wondered how far he could go. And who Harry could guess would die tonight. Considering his odds, Harry had a two in three chance.

"Riddle," Sirius said abruptly, dropping the woman on his arm so quickly that the woman stumbled. "What are you doing here?" Sirius was mad. Harry could almost hear the man growling.

"Ah, The Mutt. I don't believe we've officially met before," Voldemort answered in a faultlessly polite tone, extending his free hand. Harry felt a well of laughter bubble in his chest. How Voldemort made these events bearable, Harry didn't know; he immediately decided on bringing the man to every function possible from now on.

Sirius looked as if he wouldn't take the man's hand but the pressure of the onlookers weighed the dog-man down. Sirius shook Voldemort's hand a little too roughly, but Harry supposed that Voldemort could handle it. Voldemort seemed to enjoy Too Rough.

"Take your hands off my son," Sirius gritted through beared teeth, an imitation of a smile.

"Godson, isn't it?" Voldemort answered back flawlessly, hands still shaking. "Such a shame about his parents; one wouldn't ever wish to need a godfather, but these are the times we live in."

Harry didn't like that. He stepped forward, out of Voldemort's claws, and spun around.

"Sirius, will you teach me how to dance?" Harry asked cheerfully. "I've never learnt. I was supposed to in Fourth Year, but I hid in a closet. That counts as a secret, by the way."

The unnamed woman gaped as Sirius smiled, besotted. "Of course, Harry," he answered warmly. Harry was swept onto the dance floor and there was much swearing and toe crushing.

Harry suddenly realised he didn't mind being looked at. The realisation struck him to the core and he stood still in on the marble dance floor, looking at Sirius in shock. The feeling filling his frame was undecipherable, a strange amalgamation of wonder and carelessness. Harry wasn't scared. A turbulent concoction of freedom and euphoria filling his frame. Freedom. Harry tasted the word over and over.

Harry was pulled off the dance floor quickly, Sirius' concerned eyes fading into the distance.

"What has you so pleased? I could feel your horrible pleasure from across the room," Voldemort whispered in his ear, a hand firmly griped around Harry's bicep. Walking past doors and people and suddenly outside, alone, the cool air calming.

Harry looked at Voldemort, his mind clearer than it had been in… Well, forever.

"I'm your horcrux," Harry said suddenly.

Voldemort looked trapped, then. Caging around Harry, looking ready to fight the green-eyed boy to death.

"The prophecy has been fulfilled," Harry continued, words tumbling out of his mouth. "It's just me, just you, and a horcrux."

Voldemort's mask flickered. "What do you plan to do about it?" The monster hissed, hackles raised.

"Nothing," Harry answered simply. "I don't really mind. Do you?"

Voldemort seemed at a loss for words. "Omen of chaos," Voldemort then said, frowning. "My little wildcard. Why don't you mind?" Voldemort looked mad that Harry wasn't upset, ready to battle with no fight. Harry wondered if this was another Stone issue all over again. Voldemort didn't handle when things went well.

"Why not?" Harry asked, lips quirking mischievously.

Voldemort's face was suddenly in Harry's, challengingly, boxing him in, cold hands wrapping around his waist. Harry realised he didn't mind. It was – nice.

"Why not, indeed?" Voldemort crooned, hell burning in his unnatural eyes. Harry inhaled the scent of ash and magic, death and destruction. He closed his eyes, smiling, sharp teeth against his lips, wishing Very Hard that this moment would never end.

* * *

 _A/N: Just a short little chapter. And shamelessly dark but not; with any luck, you like fairytales with immoral endings. I feel like I could go on and on but this seems like a good place to stop. Marked complete from now, but if I think of anything I'll post as a oneshot. Hope you enjoyed and thank you to everyone for your reviews, favourites & follows - you fed me through this story._


	11. Scene I

__A/N: A little drabble from Voldemort's point of view in regards to Chapter 8. Thanks to a guest review for prompting me to write this; I was considering about doing a couple different scenes from alternative perspectives and you pushed me over the edge :)  
__

* * *

 _Scene I: He kissed me this year_

Voldemort opened his eyes. He lay on an overly plush mattress in the master suite of Malfoy Manor. A twitch. _Malfoy_.

Voldemort sat up in the bed and studied Nagini from the corner of his eye. The snake languidly curled on a priceless ottoman rug, basking in the heat of the fire. The snake rose its head and appraised her master.

' _Is he one of us?_ ' The snake hissed curiously, tasting the air with its forked tongue. _'He smells like you_. _Though he's not very clever.'_

Voldemort considered her observation, ignoring the curling of dark possessiveness in his chest at her words. Detaching away from the debasing, heated pleasure in his frame upon recalling Harry Potter speaking _Parseltongue_. What was Harry Potter?

' _Perhaps, though be careful around him, my dear. He's more than he seems,'_ Voldemort answered, mind flickering through endless conclusions. Potter as a child, Potter now. That odd concoction of child and adult, mature and innocent, unaware and untouchable in so many ways. Outside of the normal realm of human construction. What was Harry Potter?

' _He thought I was a nāga,'_ Nagini said, smug despite her earlier harsh words. Should a snake be able to look pleased with itself, Nagini would.

' _That's because he's a moron_ ,' Voldemort answered distantly, too lost in thought to listen and using his standard response whenever it came to Potter.

Nagini seemed miffed by Voldemort's dismissal. She curled up tighter and pretended to rest.

"Harry," Voldemort breathed into the dark room, tasting the word on the tip of his tongue, ear drums prickling at the name. An unbridled blend of hatred, want, possessiveness, earth shattering understanding filling his soul (what little was left of it). Harry Potter, the reflection of a person, constantly finding his way back in Voldemort's lap. Voldemort closed his eyes and tilted his jaw, cracking his neck.

What a stupid name, Harry. What a terrible moniker for that creature. It was normal enough for children, for unbearably sticky, whiny, monstrous little brats spawned from equally revolting parents. But this _sprite_ should not be called Harry.

Not this chalice for his soul, a living horcrux. _Horcrux. Harry Potter was his Horcrux._ Voldemort felt a smile curve his lips, closing his eyes and savouring the thought.

A mastery of magic, impossible in so many forms. Voldemort had made Nagini a container not long ago, but to weave a soul shard into a snake was much less complicated than to slip a piece of himself into a person, a childe, and by accident no less. To live alongside a horcrux, to weave oneself around the parasite until it became part of the host. So many possibilities for destruction, opportunities for it to go wrong. Rejection of the shard, consumption of the original host and the soul taking over, death, insanity.

Voldemort paused on that word. Insanity. It would fit Harry Potter if it weren't such a boring, hollow, two-dimensional term. Harry Potter wasn't insane, at least not in the conventional human perspective of the word. Harry Potter saw that which one could not, looked beyond the veil of life and reality and sat frozen on the edge of his seat, unable to truly participate despite commentating from the sidelines. There was a scent of destiny on the boy, something only one who had separated himself from time itself could see. Voldemort planned to be there when it happened, whatever It was. Perhaps it was happening now. Either way, Voldemort would be there to bear witness.

It amused Voldemort when Harry was forced out of his shell, when that insipid, ridiculous Emery Welsh destroyed the child's glasses. But the result was… Unexpected. It shouldn't have been. Harry was Voldemort's long before he knew of the horcrux and, in a way, Voldemort assumed everyone else would know. Harry was not for them, not for anyone. Harry was for _him_.

Voldemort recalled the first time he saw Harry without those glasses. Voldemort never cared to before, the dull, floppy child before him wholly uninteresting with the very exception of his wild magic and twisted mind. But then Seeing the child, barely sixteen of age, appear in Doctor Welsh's office in the construct of his mind (the silly brat calling him night in and night out, despite ignoring him childishly for the Ministry debacle) and Voldemort had a revelation from god. Perhaps it was a cruel, demonic god, but a god no less.

Harry Potter was perfect. Inhuman green eyes, lithe and pale and perfect. Not handsome nor beautiful nor even pretty in the human conventional way. Not gorgeous or symmetrical. But… Ethereal. Death Reincarnate. A Seraph of Existence. _His_. Voldemort never appreciated death before then. The fact he did now haunted him. Amused him. To hold death in his very hands, to call it his.

Taunting Potter was so very, very hard and yet so excruciatingly simple once he found the right buttons. Watching the boy's brow twitch with each jab. Getting under his skin. Yet the boy ignored him. It was… Unprecedented. Voldemort would awake from dreams in rages, keeping so tranquil before the child and torturing indiscriminately when away. Ripping into Welsh's mind after finally finding the tasteless psychiatrist and then wearing the human's skin.

Harry knew immediately, too. Harry spoke to him anyway, keeping up the game. Playing along. Didn't tell his own godfather. Perhaps out of curiosity. Perhaps out of apathy. Speaking to Voldemort by day, ignoring him by night. Voldemort was fascinated. How did one person have so many different personalities for each person he interacted with? Not masks, not charades. Actual different shades of himself.

 _I've already had my first kiss._

Voldemort inhaled deeply through his nose, rage flowing like a spring through his chest and filling his limbs. For another to have touched his Harry that way, _His_ _Horcrux_. To have pressed filthy, diseased lips against the mouth of the boy-turned-man, when even Voldemort hadn't _dared touch him yet_.

Voldemort had no interest in touching a child. He never had, never would. Voldemort had no interest in touching anyone if it didn't mean strangling the last of their breath from their weak, mortal lungs. But Voldemort knew from the moment he saw that child emerge from under the Sorting Hat, when Voldemort saw that little shadow burying a pet at the edge of the Forbidden Forest (reeking of blood and death, the foolish child), when he put that Cerberus down like it was nothing.

Voldemort knew. This person was _his_. And he would wait and see if the little creature survived childhood, if it came out stronger on the other side. Throwing trials the child's way to see if he rode the waves or drowned. Voldemort didn't want Harry Potter if he couldn't make it through a handful of death experiences. Harry always came out in top in the end, but in ways unexpected. Still that odd perspective two steps sideways from normal.

 _Draco Malfoy. He kissed me this year._

Said with a strange hatred despite the empty hollowness of his voice, the words tumbling from lips as if the fact rotted Harry from the inside. A challenge, plea and secret in one. Harry Potter clearly did not know what he meant by the admission, said too casually in light jest. Voldemort did.

Voldemort stood abruptly, lip twitching painfully. Uncontrollably. Voldemort hated uncontrollable.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was a handsome boy. Voldemort would say that the boy rivalled even his own appearance when he was a teenager. Ashen blond hair, aristocratic cheekbones, pale skin and irises an attractive blend of Black grey and Malfoy silver.

Voldemort leant back in his chair, watching the young man before him grovel. On his knees, hands on the marble floor, lips touching Voldemort's robes. Voldemort's legs sprawled open, draped comfortably in the high-backed throne, a consecrate king. Voldemort knew how he looked, how his petty army of sycophantic mortals worshiped him for it. He'd spent a lifetime practicing this effortless, dominating ease of a divine monarch – not that he'd ever admit it.

Voldemort smirked, a cold twisting of his lips. Lucius Malfoy paled in the background, knowing what that meant for his son. Oh, Voldemort cherished these moments so.

"My Lord," Lucius began breathlessly, interrupting his son's prostrating.

"Yes, Lucius?" Voldemort prompted, lifting a foot and resting the boot heavily over Draco's shoulder. The boy bodily flinched at the action and remained close to the marble floor, pushed down by fear and the weight of Voldemort's touch.

"I apologise for whatever my son has done," Lucius said, perhaps a little desperately. "And request that the merciful lord will place any punishment on myself." Lucius always did have a weak spot for his spawn, an oozing wound so easily ripped open at the slightest touch. Voldemort felt his lips curve up in the mockery of sympathy, digging his nails a little deeper into the wound.

Draco's muscles tensed, hearing his father's words and trembling in understanding. The last time the child wallowed in his presence, the boy was told to fix a cabinet and murder his headmaster. The boy only managed one – and barely, at that.

This tragic, feeble, spoilt little monster had dared to touch what was _his_. There was no apologising or redemption. Just atonement.

"You may leave, Lucius," Voldemort answered instead, indulgent, allowing the father to choose. Voldemort only allowed choices when the end result was to be the same.

Lucius flinched, dropping to his knees as his mouth gaped open in silent horror.

"Or not," Voldemort laughed, a sound without mirth, waving his hand dismissively. A double-edged sword; a decision with no choice. Voldemort loved these moments, watching the truth strike his victims. The realisation of death. The following struggle was all the more delicious for it.

"If I may –" Draco began.

"You may not," Voldemort hissed, the candles in the room blowing out and smoking. Voldemort knew he was perhaps being a little dramatic, but what was a Dark Lord if not spectacular?

Draco trembled and Voldemort laughed.


	12. Scene II

_A/N: Another drabble (I'm on a roll) a few years post chapter 10; let's say two. A little lighter than the last scene - hope you enjoy._

* * *

 _Scene II: An Apple A Day_

Sirius was Not Happy.

" _Him?"_ Sirius hissed. "Does it really have to be _him_?" The man seethed.

"I guess," Harry answered fairly easily.

"But – that – it's – _him?_ " Sirius stressed once more, furious. A red blush of rage flushed the man's neck and he paced furiously, always the Grim.

"Yes," Harry responded, wondering if Sirius was about to have a heart attack. That wouldn't be pleasant.

" _Harry_ ," Sirius then said, stopping, eyes full of insanity and rage and something Harry couldn't quite decipher. "He killed Lily and James, _your parents_. He's killed _so many people_ ," Sirius said. The words rang in Harry's head.

"Yes," Harry said again. He knew.

"But – you – I just," Sirius babbled then, waffling in the face of Harry's frankness. "Get out!" Sirius then demanded, roaring in hatred and fear.

"Okay," Harry said, realising that this should have been expected. It wasn't, but it should have been. Harry stood to leave.

"No, wait," Sirius said, wringing his wrists. "Don't go – just listen to me, please," he pleaded.

Harry sat back down.

"I can't disown you," Sirius whispered, a sudden contrast to his catastrophic rage, collapsing in a wooden chair as if all fight had left him. "Not how my parents did. Not how my mother did. I… It just feels like the opposite. Me kicking you out for something dark when my parents kicked me out for something light."

Harry didn't know why Sirius was telling him. He _knew_.

"Why, Harry?" Sirius asked then, eyes full of tears and words exposing the raw breaking of his heart.

Harry looked at his godfather, then – or father, was it now? – and sighed.

"I don't know," Harry answered, wishing he did.

* * *

"What's wrong?" Voldemort asked, face pinched in irritation. Well, as pinched as an emotionless mask could be. "I can feel your despair. Stop it."

Harry watched the man from across Doctor Welsh's desk. He didn't speak.

"You're acting like a child," Voldemort hissed, sharp nails digging into the mahogany and splintering the hard wood, face alight with contempt. "You're two minutes away from summoning green slime. It's revolting."

Harry didn't respond other than to tilt his head and wallow in the hollowness eating his chest.

"Potter," Voldemort then said Very Seriously, eyes brighter than smelting steel. "If you don't stop this tantrum, I will kill you. Horcrux or not."

Harry knew that his agony and pain was transmitting to Voldemort. Voldemort did not do well with emotions. Harry felt a lot of them, but often they were often suppressed to the point they exploded in a dramatic array of colours at random intervals. This was one of those times.

"Sirius is mad at me," Harry said into the dark room.

"I'll kill him too, then," Voldemort sneered back. It was said in cruelty but Harry knew the man wasn't jesting. Voldemort didn't joke when it came to death.

"No, thank you," Harry answered distantly. "This is me. All me."

Voldemort didn't look appeased. "What has your filthy mutt done now?" The man scowled, not convinced but not nearly as enraged as he was a moment ago. Harry knew that Voldemort overreacted when it came to him.

Harry smiled softly, the hollowness in his chest suddenly a bit more bearable. Voldemort was a strange concoction of human and monster. It shouldn't charm Harry, but it was similar to his take on beasts.

"Nothing unexpected," Harry answered, leaning back in the hard chair. "What have you been doing?" He asked suddenly, interested in leading the conversation away from his godfather's imminent death. Sure, Harry knew Sirius would die one day. But not Right Now would be nice.

Voldemort looked irritated by the change of conversation. To be honest, Harry supposed it was very difficult to understand Voldemort at all. But Harry watched and watched until he could see even the barest of twitch in the man's stoic expression and deduced from there. Voldemort was almost easier to read than his First Year potion's text.

"Work," Voldemort drawled darkly, fingers beginning that stressful tempo on the mahogany wood of the desk. "Always work."

"Do you want to play?" Harry asked suddenly, seeing the stress lines in Voldemort's jaw. The minute twitch of the man's brow. The stronger than normal twist of his lips.

"Play?" Voldemort asked then, fingers stilling. "How so?"

"I have an idea," Harry said, smiling brightly, wondering if anyone had ever asked the immortal Dark Lord if he wanted to play. If not, Harry felt like it was about time.

Voldemort's eyes glittered dangerously. Harry smiled even wider. It was taking more and more to really piss the monster off but, when Harry managed it, he revelled in the experience. Perhaps Voldemort was becoming desensitised to Harry's madness. Perhaps Harry just needed to double his efforts.

* * *

Harry had intended to make Voldemort hike with him. Sure, Harry acknowledged it would appear odd to demand the most powerful, evil, darkest wizard to have ever walked the British Isles to put on a pair of boots with enhanced grip and trek up a mountain slope. Voldemort seemed to think so, too.

"Are you insane?" Voldemort whispered in cold rage, magic lashing out and wrapping around Harry threateningly.

Harry looked at the demon reincarnate, eyebrows raised in challenge. Voldemort wore impossibly well-tailored robes, expensive-beyond-belief loafers, hair done as if just out of a barber. He was ridiculously handsome, tall, imposing, perfect, seductive, and unrufflable. Voldemort said phrases and words like "indeed" and "infallible" and "investor-income" and "I'm busy tonight, Minister, but thank you for your consideration".

Harry found it charming. Or was it amusing? Either way, Harry wanted to tear that image apart with his teeth.

"Yes," Harry answered agreeably. "Please put on the boots." Harry extended his arm, a pair of large hiking shoes dangling from his fingers.

"You're a fucking moron," Voldemort said. Harry smiled impossibly wider; Voldemort only swore when Harry got under his skin and _only_ when alone with Harry.

"I'm healthy," Harry corrected lightly, wiggling the boots in his hand. "And don't you want to be, too? It's terribly important to exercise, you know. Extends one's life expectancy. Not that you have one, but still. Hermione taught me all about yoga and pilates, too, so don't think you're getting out of stretching either."

Voldemort's nostrils flared. Harry wondered if he shouldn't have mentioned Hermione. Oh well.

Voldemort suddenly looked like he was two seconds away from mass murdering Hogsmeade and perhaps a few minor muggle villages and Harry realised with a start that he may have gone a little too far.

"Or we could fuck?" Harry asked brightly, dropping the boots. "I think that counts as exercise _and_ stretching 'cause Hermione told me – "

Voldemort tackled Harry before he could finish what he meant to say.

* * *

Harry rolled over onto his stomach, bones melted and mind completely sated.

"You're such a fucking moron," Voldemort drawled once more, running dangerously sharp nails up and down Harry's spine. Harry arched into the touch, melting into the grass as he breathed deeply.

"Hiking. My horcrux wants me to go hiking. What fucking lunacy," Voldemort continued, sounding equally amused and murderous in one.

Harry hummed in agreement.

Perhaps he shouldn't tell Sirius this secret.


	13. Scene III

_A/N: I'm seriously blown away by the response to this story. Thank you all so much for your encouraging reviews (you amazing people) and likes/follows. I'm really not sure if I'll keep updating this story, but I keep find myself coming back to putting Harry in odd situations and amusing myself with the ensuing collateral damage. This one is kind of fluffy and a touch dark, but I get the feeling you like that if you've made it this far ;) Hope you enjoy._

* * *

 _Scene III: In which Harry's social worlds collide, he says something he maybe probably shouldn't have, and the universe provides._

While Harry knew that he had it pretty good, being Harry James Potter wasn't always what one would call _a walk in the park_. Sure, sure, Harry had a loving godfather, a girl who had basically wormed herself into being his own pseudo-sister, acquaintances that didn't expect him to call on them or visa versa but waved at him amicably on the street. He even had a pet dog, when his godfather was in the mood. So, yes. Harry did have it all.

Except on days when his – well, his… Paramour? _Beau?_ Person. Yes, Harry's Person. Except on days when Harry's Person was behaving like a total annihilating monster from the deep sea (an image that gave him frightfully amusing images of a fabulously dressed Godzilla razing half of Tokyo), Harry really wondered if he had anything at all.

 _"Kill them all!"_ Voldemort screamed in silent rage. Or rather whispered. But the hissed words lashed through the gilded hall as if he had bellowed.

"My lord," gushed a distraught, unnamed and fully masked Death Eater. "The Order of the Phoenix has hidden the little traitors – "

"Hidden? Oh, they've hidden them!" Voldemort interrupted in sudden surprise, his expression warm and understanding in less than a heartbeat. Harry was alarmed no one suffered immediate whiplash from Voldemort's about-face. Well, a couple Death Eaters kneeling closest to him began to quake in their boots. "Well, then. I guess that's it. Shall we all go home for an early supper?"

The hall was so quiet Harry could hear a pin drop. Literally. Harry dropped a pin on the floor and watched it roll down the steps of dais, frowning as it stopped just before falling off the last step. Just a _little further –_

Voldemort shot Harry a fleeting look of pure annoyance. By the time he returned to the crowd of stock-still followers, however, the terrifying mask of confusing pleasantness was back in full force. Harry stifled an eye roll. Why on earth was he supposed to come to these meetings anyway?

"Didn't you hear me?" Voldemort asked, voice saccharine. "I said let us _all go home early for supper_."

No one moved. A rather young-looking Death Eater in the back started to turn around and was immediately stopped by another larger cloaked figure, who shook his head minutely.

"No?" Voldemort continued, tone chillier than an Arctic breeze. "Oh, well, maybe you'd all rather just stick around then _and do what I tell you!"_

Harry rolled his eyes and disapparated with a _pop!_

* * *

"He's very moody," Harry announced, dropping his heavy cloak in the entrance way of the Black Library and frowning.

"He's… Moody," Hermione answered, looking up from her book slowly. "Your boyfriend, the immortal Dark Lord with a penchant for murder, is… _Moody._ "

"Yes," Harry sighed, dropping onto a leather chaise and crossing his arms grumpily. "It's getting annoying."

Hermione stared at Harry with flabbergasted irritation. "Your _muggle murdering,_ psychotic boyfriend is _annoying_ , but not nearly murder-y and psycho-y to dump?"

Harry looked at Hermione in confusion. "Yeah, that's literally what I just said."

"What the living hell is wrong with you?" Hermione asked suddenly, surprising Harry. "And don't you dare ask ' _Where did that come from, Hermione?'_ " Hermione mimicked in a deep, dumb tone. "I've been leaving you breadcrumbs so figuratively literal that I'm surprised you didn't use them to follow your way home."

"What?" Harry asked, face twisted in confusion.

"I'm not comfortable with you dating a mass murderer and since you refuse to listen to reason or take a hint, I'm _not_ willing to talk about him," Hermione answered smartly, turning back to her book.

Harry blinked at Hermione in surprise. He opened his mouth to answer and Hermione immediately cut him off, eyes narrowed dangerously.

"And do _not_ compare me to Sirius. Who, by the by, does in fact have the right to ask you to _not_ invite your murdering psycho for dinner!" Hermione didn't even look up from her book, carefully turning a page and nestling deeper into her armchair.

Harry closed his mouth with an audible _click_ , instead choosing to frown at her.

" _He's not that bad, Hermione!_ " Hermione said, now merely pretending read her book judging by the way her lips were scrunched. She used a rather unflattering annoying voice to mock Harry. " _He's actually pretty cute when you – "_

"Does he call me cute?" A cold, deep voice interrupted her tantrum.

Harry and Hermione both looked up to see a smirking Tom Riddle standing in the doorway of the library, arms crossed and expression devilishly cavalier. In the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Hermione turning a rather ashen colour.

"Seems a little… Misleading," Voldemort continued, raising a curled hand to study his nails. "I'd say I'm more handsome than cute."

Hermione's mouth had fallen open at some point and Harry resisted the urge to reach over and shut it for her. He was concerned, though, about the fact that she was _still_ paling and she was already a translucent shade of white.

"Well," Harry announced. "This isn't exactly how I planned, but here we go. Hermione Jean Granger, meet Lord Voldemort." Harry swept his hand between his two people and neither said anything. Voldemort made a point of looking her up and down, focusing on her frizzy hair and rumpled clothing, before turning back to his nails in apparent disinterest.

Harry nearly groaned. There was nothing worse than behaving like a snotty pureblood douche around Hermione.

The colour in Hermione's face returned with force and she even began to glow with a rosy shade of rage. " _Mudblood_ Hermione Jean Granger," Hermione corrected contemptuously, straightening in her chair. " _Pleasure_ to meet your acquaintance," she practically snarled.

Voldemort looked up through thick eyelashes, a dangerous glint reflecting in his eyes. Harry then did actually groan. There was nothing worse than challenging Voldemort. Well, Harry did it all the time but for some reason Voldemort didn't seem to get murder-y (as Hermione called it) by Harry's behaviour. Hermione didn't enjoy the same privilege.

 _These two were going to loath each other._

"So, you know your place. Good to know we won't need to have the talk," Voldemort answered back with smooth charm, charisma oozing off his relaxed frame.

"On the contrary, _Advisor Riddle_ ," Hermione answered, just as cool, "I think we need to have a very long talk indeed. Perhaps straighten out a few of those misconceptions of yours."

"Harry once told me that you're the brightest witch he's ever met," Voldemort crooned. "I see now that's probably due to the fact he's not familiar with many witches."

"And Harry told me all about your adventure to the spirit realm. Doesn't seem very bright to mess with magic we can't handle, hm?" Hermione answered without skipping a beat.

The room turned deathly cold in an instant.

"How about a cup of tea?" Harry chirped, clapping his hands. Neither Voldemort or Hermione took their narrowed eyes off one another.

Until, of course, Kreacher popped into the room and promptly screamed a high-pitched wail of despair.

" _You!"_ Kreacher wailed, mouth agape in horrified terror and falling to his knees.

"Kreacher," Voldemort breathed, looking momentarily stunned. Harry blinked in surprise. Voldemort didn't do stunned, momentarily or not. "How the – " Kreacher vanished with a shockingly loud _crack_ and Voldmort's eyes bled red.

"Harry, dear," Voldemort said with that horrid pleasant tone he'd been using all day.

"Hm?" Harry asked, doing his best not to lose his temper. He had just wanted a _bloody cup of damn tea_.

"Where does that spawn of hell incarnate usually go when it's upset?" Voldemort asked with faultless politeness.

"Don't you dare touch that elf!" Hermione spat, leaping to her feet.

"There's a cupboard in the kitchen," Harry answered, waving his hand in the direction of the Black kitchens.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted, scandalised, looking torn between chasing Voldemort as the creature stomped off (rather eerily like a monster on the prowl) and staying as far away from the man as possible.

Harry shrugged. "Apparently they know each other. Sounds like a lot of drama. I'm pretty wiped. Just wanted a cup of tea. Once this is done, I might even get one."

There was a sudden crashing from the kitchens and an ear-splittingly loud scream and then it was silent once more.

"But… What if he kills Kreacher? What if he _just_ killed Kreacher?" Hermione asked timidly, suddenly looking very afraid and sinking back into her armchair.

"Then he'll get his head on the wall. Which is literally all he talks about ever since he turned three hundred," Harry answered distractedly.

Hermione turned blazing eyes of fury onto her black-haired friend and Harry sighed in deep suffering.

 _"Fine_ ," Harry answered bitterly. "I'll go see what the damn commotion is about."

Before Hermione had a chance to say anything else, Harry pulled himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchens. Once he peaked through the door, though, he wished he'd braved the library and let Hermione chew him out.

Voldemort stood over a sobbing Kreacher, glittering maroon eyes inspecting a large silver object. A long chain curled around Voldemort's lithe fingers and he was stroking the object with his thumbs, an expression akin to pleasure lighting his features.

"So," Harry announced himself a little clumsily. "Am I interrupting something?"

Voldemort's eyes snapped to Harry's and a smirk graced the tall man's face. "A long story, but I'd like you to meet someone."

"Someone," Harry repeated, pointedly looking at the object in Voldemort's hands.

Harry approached anyway without hesitation and looked at the silver ornament. It was shaped like a locket, but very gaudy and too large. An ornate _S_ decorated the face and while it was beautiful in an overly lavish way, Harry could feel the dark energy radiating off it almost immediately.

"No way," Harry breathed, reaching out to the trinket. "Is that what I think it is?"

As soon as his fingers touched the patina, a wave of interest and fascination hit him. One that wasn't his own or from Voldemort. It came from within the locket.

"Yes," Voldemort crooned, lips lilted in a dangerous smirk and sharp canines glittering in the candle light.

"Neat," Harry answered distractedly, letting his fingers brush the surface a little longer and amazed by the reaction he received from the seemingly inanimate object. "Isn't he lonely?" Harry asked in soft consideration.

Voldemort glanced at Harry through the corner of his eye. "Lonely? I don't get _lonely_."

Harry sighed and gently pried the locket from Voldemort's cool hands. Voldemort allowed Harry to take the object while still retaining control of the chain, a protectiveness evident that Harry didn't expect him to relinquish. There was a sudden rush of emotion and, while largely tainted with dark magic and insidious intentions, there was a certain joy about it. A leaping of excitement that couldn't be contained.

"Humans are social animals," Harry whispered, turning the locket over in his hands and watching his breath fog the surface of the silver. "Loneliness is an instinct. To remind us to socialise. It's not only natural, it's ingrained in our very psyche."

"You speak as if you know loneliness," Voldemort answered quietly, Kreacher's soft sobs now almost entirely fading away into the background as Harry looked up. The man was so close, fingers playing with the silver chain and lips hovering just over Harry's own.

"Of course I know loneliness," Harry answered. "To be lonely is to be human."

"I thought to love is to be human," Voldemort answered with a huff of faux laughter.

"Wouldn't that be so simple?" Harry asked, feeling woozy under the onslaught of emotions exploding from his fingertips. Harry tilted his head as he studied Voldemort's bottom lip, so close to his and –

"That's enough," Voldemort practically snarled, pulling the chain harshly and ripping the locket from Harry's fingertips.

Harry blinked in surprise, feeling as if suddenly coming out of a trance.

"Did he just… Seduce me?" Harry asked, still feeling a little askew and very much flustered.

"Apparently we're all interested in Harry Potter," Voldemort drawled, eyes glinting as he tucked the locket into his pocket. "And perhaps we'll test that theory one day, but right now I have an elf to punish."

Harry nodded and allowed himself to be pushed in the directly of the library, still blinking blearily and smiling secretly to himself as he realised that he might just have all forms of Voldemort secured rather tightly around his little finger.

* * *

"What an _ass_ ," Hermione fumed.

Harry hummed, not looking up from his book. He finally got his tea and was determined to not let anything disturb the cosy relaxation that came from enjoying a steaming cup of darjeeling.

Hermione scowled at him. "Don't just agree without listening! I can't believe he can even order Kreacher around! He's not Kreacher's master. No one should be Kreacher's master! He should be a _free elf_ , Harry!"

Harry put down his book and looked at Hermione thoughtfully. "Do you really believe that?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked affronted. "Of course I believe that!" She practically squawked.

"And you've asked Kreacher this?" Harry pressed.

"Well, he wouldn't say that he wants to be free but that's only because he doesn't know what it's like to – "

"Have you read about house elves that are freed, Hermione?" Harry cut through, not rudely but firmly still.

"Yes, I have, and there are a few minor cases that go wrong but for the most part they eventually adjust – "

"Four out of five," Harry interrupted again.

"What?" Hermione asked in surprise.

"Four out of five house elves commit suicide after being set free within five years," Harry answered.

"That's – no, there's no way," Hermione stated in disbelief.

Harry shrugged. "Witches and wizards have cultivated house elves for obedience. Bred them, really. Similar to how muggles breed dogs. We've bred total and utter submission and adoration into those little creatures. We've bred in a bond, like an imprint. The first family a house elf serves will be their family for eternity. If you truly want the abuse of house elves to end, you'll have to stop the breeding of house elves. Because there is no regulation in the world that will stop people from treating their house elves how they want to in the confines of their own home."

Hermione stared at Harry slack jawed, expression horrified as if he had said something unconscionable.

"They're – they're not _dogs_ , Harry," Hermione protested softly. "They're people. Creatures that aren't as strong or fierce as goblins, so they're taken advantage of."

"Sure," Harry agreed instantly. "So, stop the breeding and sale of house elves."

Hermione scowled, then. It was an expression Harry knew very well. It meant that while Hermione didn't have an argument now, she would keep researching until she found away around his argument and she would spring it on him at some random interval in the future. Merlin, help him.

"I'm still writing Riddle a strongly worded letter," Hermione warned firmly, turning back to her parchment and inking her quill with ferocity.

Harry shrugged and returned to his reading.

* * *

Harry woke up the feeling of something being slipped onto his finger. He blinked blearily at Voldemort, the light of the early morning illuminating the man's defined features.

"Found this in Dumbledore's possessions," Voldemort quietly answered Harry's unspoken question, expression sharp but red eyes lacking their normal venom. "Less animated, or _lonely_ I believe you would say, than the locket. Who I put in there is gone now, but that doesn't diminish its value."

Harry raised the large, cracked gemstone to his eyes, hovering his hand over his face and smiling softly.

"I like it," Harry responded, letting his hand fall back to the side of the bed. "Now let me sleep, you insomniac." Harry barely formed the words before falling back into a light doze.

* * *

Voldemort was Not Happy to receive Hermione's letter. It was a long, drawn out criticism of wizarding social culture with a focus on the abuse of creature rights, and a generally scathing personal attack on Voldemort's political stances. It was a good eight feet long and read like a well-researched essay on precisely how much Hermione Granger despised Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort was, to say the least, _not impressed._

Harry managed to apparate directly to Hermione's building doorstep just as Voldemort personally made a house call on his friend. He raced up the stairs and listened with dread as Hermione shrieked in surprise to the sound of her front door being blasted in. Harry caught sight of Voldemort advancing on the pale, bushy haired brunette before wishing in an instant that Voldemort _couldn't hurt his best friend._

Voldemort's wand flew out of his hand and clattered uselessly on the wooden floorboards.

Both Voldemort and Hermione stared at one another in surprise before the tall man turned sharply on his heel to face a panting Harry.

"No," Harry gasped. "Absolutely not."

"You just disarmed me," Voldemort stated flatly.

"You're about to kill my best friend," Harry answered in a no-nonsense tone. "We _talked_ about this. No murdering my family. I don't care _what_ you do, and I get that you deal with asshats that sometimes need a good murder, but for Merlin's sake murder isn't _always_ the answer!"

" _You have no idea what you have done,_ " Voldemort hissed icily in Parseltongue.

"And you have no idea what will happen if you do this," Harry answered back firmly.

"Are you threatening me?" Voldemort asked calmly. Too calmly.

"No," Harry responded, straightening himself and scowling. "I don't have any interest in threatening you. I'm just telling you this: Hermione is my best friend, I love her. I love you. So do _not_ make me choose."

Hermione squawked and Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits.

"What did you say to me?" Voldemort whispered in a deathly dangerous tone.

"Don't make me choose," Harry repeated unsurely.

"Before that," Voldemort snapped, drawing closer to Harry with large steps.

"She's my best friend?" Harry chirped, suddenly realising the error of his ways. Oh, Merlin all mighty did he just say – _Harry was in So Much Trouble_.

"The middle part, you moron," Voldemort crooned, suddenly in his face and large hands wrapping around Harry's midriff.

"Um," Hermione butt in.

"Would you look at the time?" Harry asked suddenly, looking at Hermione for an escape, heat blossoming across his face. "It's like three. Thirty. I think. Aren't we supposed to be doing that thing right now? Don't – don't we have a thing?"

Voldemort smirked viciously and apparated them away in an instant.

* * *

Harry awoke once more to the vision of Voldemort hovering over him, strong forearms braced on either side of his head and red eyes peering down at him with sardonic amusement.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered softly. "You foolish child."

"Shut up," Harry groaned, trying to roll over onto his side and frowning as the arms around him barely allowed for movement. "It's hardly morning."

" _Love_. You stupid, foolish, insane child," Voldemort continued.

"Yeah sure okay," Harry muttered into his pillow, ignoring Voldemort's amused laughter. Harry pointedly stared away from Voldemort's teasing (his cruel version of it, that is) expression and blinked at surprise at his bedside table.

Voldemort's wand, a fairly new addition to the man's collection, lay on his bedside table. Harry's invisibility cloak was also draped over the edge and he could not for the life of him recall placing either there. Judging by Voldemort's state of undress, neither had he at some point in the night. Harry realised with a start that he never did get around to mentioning his invisibility cloak to Voldemort. Harry liked to keep some mystery in their life, after all.

Harry reached to push the cloak over the edge of the table out of line of sight and his ring tingled in a sudden wave of anticipated magic. Harry hovered his hand close to the other objects, blinking in surprise at the magnetic feel of the three items. He experimentally waved his hand, feeling the ring drawn to the wand and cloak from any angle.

"What do you think that's about?" Harry asked, nodding towards his odd collection of trinkets.

Voldemort turned his line of sight to Harry's hand and bedside table. The man's lean frame stiffened and Harry peered up to study his expression. It was a wonderous mixture of shock, awe, and then suddenly irritation.

"The Hallows. You have _all three Hallows_ ," Voldemort whispered into the room. He sounded stunned.

"Hallows," Harry repeated dully. And he even had 'all three'. It sounded like one of those weird wizarding things that was going to bring Harry a lot of trouble, so he sighed and nestled his head back into the pillows. "Cool. Tell me about it _after_ nine am," Harry muttered and pulled the duvet higher over their frames.

" _You really are my little wild card, Harry Potter,"_ Voldemort hissed while laughing wondrously, a noise Harry had never heard from the man. Harry rolled his eyes and smiled contently as cool lips pressed against his own.

 _Three Hallows_ , Harry thought to himself in amusement. _Whatever would wizards think of next?_


End file.
